Trial By Madness
by Susan M. Garrett
Summary: Jules Verne is faced with the possibility that his friends and his adventures are only figments of his imagination. Or are they?
1. Chapter 1

**TITLE: _Trial By Madness_**

**AUTHOR: ** Susan M. Garrett 

**CATEGORY: ** Drama, adventure. 

**RATING/WARNINGS: ** PG 

**MAIN CHARACTERS: ** Everyone. 

**THANKS: ** Thank you for reading with the understanding that I take responsibility only for mistakes of misspelling and grammar. What the characters do and say is entirely up to them. 

**** 

**Chapter One **

"Jules? Jules, wake up!" 

A male voice, speaking in French, but not one he recognized. Yawning, Jules opened his eyes. 

This wasn't his bed. This wasn't his room in Paris. It wasn't his home in Nantes. It wasn't the Aurora or Fogg's London home, or even Shillingworth Magna. 

Morning sunlight streamed through threadbare flowered curtains and into the small room - smaller even than his garret in Paris. The faded patterned wallpaper was marked now and again by ancient water stains and there were only two small, pastoral paintings of cows on the wall. The rag rug seemed more for the sake of appearance than for providing any comfort from the cold floorboards. 

The bed creaked beneath him as he sat up - he'd been sleeping upon the covers. He was fully dressed, with the exception of his boots, waistcoat and coat, all three of which were lying in a heap on the floor to one side of the bed. 

Where was he? What was he doing here? 

A young man, also in shirt and braces, was splashing water on his face from a basin. He picked up a towel, wiped the water from his face and hands, then grinned at Jules. "Come on, we'll be late! It'll take us the better part of the day to get through the museum." 

Jules caught the towel as it was thrown at him. His companion sat down on a rickety chair and began to put on his boots. Parisian, from his speech, with dark hair and eyes. 

A complete and utter stranger. 

Sliding from the bed, Jules moved to the window and looked down to the street below. An alleyway, but he heard English from the early morning costermongers. If he had to guess, he would have said the sun had barely risen. 

England. He was in England. 

Of course he was in England. Last night he'd arrived at Fogg's townhouse, had come by boat and then train in answer to an urgent summons . . . that had proven to be less than urgent after all. He could not be told what the emergency had been or why it had so suddenly ceased to be an emergency - something to do with one of Rebecca's missions - but had been treated to dinner for his troubles. 

And what a dinner! Passepartout had outdone himself, each course grander than the last. If his friends were a little distant, if there were looks exchanged between them he was not supposed to see, well, that was simply the ex-emergency, after all. They laughed, they talked, they drank . . . . 

He had gone to bed in the townhouse bedroom he'd used before, fully expecting to awaken there. 

Not . . . here? 

His companion clapped him on the shoulder. Jules turned and was handed his waistcoat. "Dress - we don't have all day! If we don't catch the five o'clock train, we'll miss the boat. If we miss the boat, we'll miss the next morning lecture. And _you_," he was punched lightly in the chest and took the blow in surprise, "have missed too many lectures already this semester." 

"I'm sorry," said Jules, staring. "Who are you? You're in my morning lecture class?" 

"Stop kidding!" 

His boots were tossed at him and he fumbled for them; the one he missed continued over the edge of the bed and to the floor. Tossing the one he'd caught to the bed, along with his waistcoat, Jules rose and grabbed the stranger by the shoulders when he moved closer. "I'm not joking. Who are you? Where am I? How did I get here?" 

"Oh, yes, go ahead and forget Gaspar when it comes time to pay the bill, no?" The young man laughed, pulling away. "But the joke's on you - the woman wouldn't let us into the room last night until we paid. And since you were the only one with English money . . . ." 

Jules put his hand in his trouser pocket and withdrew two five-pound notes and a handful of coins. He stared in confusion. "English money." 

Gaspar seated himself on the other side of the bed and patted Jules on the shoulder. "Don't worry - I'll give you my half in good French francs when we get back to Paris. Don't forget, I paid for the beers we had last night, so you owe me lunch. Not that I'm looking forward to eating anything else here. That dinner? Ugh!" He picked up the waistcoat from the bed and handed it to Jules again. "Get dressed. This trip cost me half my allowance this month and if I'm to live on nothing but stale bread for the next two weeks, I'll need memories of the Royal museum to feast upon." 

His waistcoat smelled of beer. Wrinkling his nose, Jules stared down at it. "I can't wear this." 

"You've no choice." Gaspar had picked up his own waistcoat and was shrugging into it. "They're unlikely to let you into the museum half-dressed. It's your own fault. You don't hold your wine well, Jules, but I suspect beer is even worse for you." 

"No. This isn't right." Jules threw the waistcoat down on the bed beside Gaspar and walked to the wash basin. He tossed the used water into a slops bucket, poured clean water into the bowl, then splashed it on his face. He turned and Gaspar threw the towel at him, which he used to dry himself. "I had dinner with the Foggs last night. We had wine, not beer. And the food was excellent." 

"The . . . Foggs." Gaspar's eyes seemed to darken, his smile disappearing behind a scowl. "Jules, you had dinner with me last night. At that pub, remember?" He rose to his feet and walked toward Jules the way a man might approach a timid animal he fully expected to bolt. "We had those awful pies. The woman claimed they were beef, but if they were anything other than cat, I'd be surprised." Gaspar took the towel from his hands. "Are you all right? It's those damned pies, isn't it?" 

"I'm fine." Jules stared at his companion. "I just . . . I have no idea who you are. I've never seen you before." 

Gaspar's expression was concerned, and perhaps more than a little frightened. "This isn't funny, Jules. Stop it." 

"I don't find it particularly funny either. I don't know who you are or what's going on--" He looked around the room frantically. "My journal. Where's my journal?" 

"Here." Gaspar ran to a satchel at the foot of the bed and pulled out the battered notebook. "Don't panic, I've got it." 

Racing to his side, Jules took the journal from Gaspar's hands and opened it, flipping from one set of pages to the next. His class notes were intact, along with the occasional scribble and story or play idea, but all of his drawings were gone. Anything technical, anything that had arisen from his visions had vanished. Nor was there any sign the pages had been removed. It was simply as if they'd never existed. 

"Where are they?" he demanded, slapping Gaspar on the shoulder with the flat of the book. "Where are my sketches!" 

Gaspar grabbed the book from his hands and threw it to the floor, startling him. "There _are_ no sketches," he said tautly. "There have never _been_ any sketches. Jules, you can't draw worth a damn, and you know it! You're a student of law. And if your father wasn't such a conceited, overbearing fool--" His fists clenched, Gaspar turned away. "I told him. I told him you weren't well enough for this trip. He thought it might 'exorcise the last demons.' Well, the demons are back and here I am in the middle of London with a raving lunatic." 

Stunned, Jules slowly picked up the book that both was and was not his journal and hugged it to his chest. "How do you know my father?" 

Gaspar gave Jules an anxious glance over his shoulder. "You're going to be angry with me--" Then he turned. "When he brought you back the last time, he offered me a hundred francs to keep an eye out for you. And I took it." Gaspar looked away. "My family - there's no money there. You know that. I would have kept an eye on you anyway, out of friendship's sake, but the money . . . ." Straightening, Gaspar cleared his throat and met Jules' gaze. "I told you my father had inherited some money - that's how we were going to pay for this trip? It's a lie. Your father gave me the money. You were doing so well; he just wanted to make certain. You have such an obsession with these imaginary English people; he thought if I took you to London and everything went well?" 

There was something in the way Gaspar spoke, an edge courtesy of a guilty conscience that made Jules want to believe the fairy story he'd just heard. But it couldn't be true. He'd never met Gaspar before, he was certain of it. This man was a stranger, his tale nothing more than a fiction. 

And yet his eyes, as he waited for Jules' reaction, were so stricken with guilt and worry-- 

"You're not my friend." 

Gaspar looked away. "I shouldn't have taken the money--" 

"That's not it. Gaspar, I'm sorry, but I've never met you before. I don't know you." Jules held the notebook out, then tossed it onto the floor. "This isn't mine. It's been switched." 

There was a long moment of silence, Gaspar suddenly going very still. "Jules, keep calm, all right?" 

"Keep calm?" Jules ran his hands through his hair and turned away, walking back to the window. "I wake up in a place I've never seen before and someone who's claiming to be my friend, but whom I've never met, is telling me to keep calm?" 

"It's just that - this has happened before." 

"It has?" Jules turned to face Gaspar, bewildered. "What has?" 

"When it starts, the spell or madness or whatever it is." Gaspar swallowed. "You, um, start spouting nonsense about the Legion of Darkness or the League of Doom or--" 

"The League of Darkness," corrected Jules. 

That made sense. He'd been kidnapped by the League before - why should this time be any different? But he'd been at Fogg's townhouse. Had Fogg, Rebecca, and Passepartout been taken as well? 

He was on the wrong side of the bed to make it to the door. If this was a plot by the League . . . the door would be guarded, wouldn't it? But not the window. If he could climb out onto the roof-- 

"The League of Darkness," agreed Gaspar, quickly. "Then you start shouting. And that turns into screaming. And then--" 

Jules ran his hands along the window frame - yes, that would open. But he paused in his escape plans, hearing a catch in Gaspar's voice. "And then--?" 

"Then they take you away." 

The words so filled with fear, they arrested Jules' attention immediately. The window forgotten, he turned to find Gaspar watching him with wide eyes. "Take me . . . where?" 

"The first time - to the hospital. The second - to the asylum." Gaspar stepped forward and took hold of Jules' arm. "Please, Jules, for my sake if for no other reason, can you pretend that you aren't ill, just until we return to Paris? There's a train in an hour - we can take an earlier ship across. If you must go mad, you can do so at _home_. Here," Gaspar released him and sat down on the bed in despair, "I don't know what'll happen." 

"Nothing will happen here," promised Jules. "My friends will--" 

"Your non-existent English friends," corrected Gaspar sadly, buttoning his own waistcoat. 

This was absurd. Jules knew he had to escape. He also knew that he had no idea who Gaspar was. For all he knew, this so-called friend could be an agent for the League of Darkness. 

And yet . . . there was something in the way Gaspar spoke, something in his manner that indicated he knew Jules - or thought he knew Jules. His fear at the idea of Jules being 'taken away' was not entirely a sham. 

Jules sat down on the bed beside Gaspar. "What if I could prove to you that I'm not mad, that my English friends are real? Would you believe me then?" 

"Believe you?" Gaspar gave a desperate laugh, something akin to a bark. "Introduce me to these non-existent friends of yours and I'll not only believe you, I'll pay your father back every dime I took from him!" 

"Fogg has a house on Saville Row. We'll go there." Jules clapped Gaspar on the shoulder, then returned to the window. "If we climb out through here, there's a drainpipe on the next roof over that we can--" 

"What's wrong with the door?" asked Gaspar, pointing over his shoulder. 

Jules shook his head, dismissing the option. "It's probably guarded." 

"By whom?" To Jules' horror, Gaspar rose from the bed, grabbed his coat, and headed for the door. "I went out this morning to get water for the basin." 

"Don't!" called Jules, as Gaspar threw open the door. 

Nothing happened. 

No guns. No smoke. No noise. No guards. No League of Darkness thugs, with or without cortical lobe studs. 

Nothing. 

Jules walked over to the doorway and peered out into the dim hallway. There was another door opposite, a dusty hall, and a flight of narrow stairs going down into the bowels of the rooming house. 

Joining him, Gaspar also looked out. "I'd rather use the stairs than the drainpipe." 

"To be honest, so would I." Glancing down at his stocking feet, Jules added, "I'd rather be wearing my boots, too." 

Gaspar picked up the satchel from the floor and leaned on the doorjamb, watching as Jules seated himself on the bed and began to pull his boots on over his stockings. "Have you gone down many drainpipes recently?" 

"One," said Jules, but hesitated, the second boot in his hand. "No - two, I think." Once his boots were on, he picked up his waistcoat, wrinkled his nose at the stench of stale beer that seemed to permeate it, and then shrugged his arms into the holes. "How about you?" 

Gaspar shook his head, seeming suddenly uncomfortable. 

"What?" asked Jules, as he buttoned his waistcoat. 

"The way you answer, you seem so sane sometimes. I can almost believe that you've gone down drainpipes, escaped from villains, flown in an airship." Gaspar folded his arms and sighed. "Almost." 

Grabbing his coat from the floor, Jules tapped Gaspar on the arm and headed for the door. "Come on - I'll prove it to you." 

**** 

End of Part 1 

**** 


	2. Chapter 2

**** 

**Chapter Two**

Jules knew by rote the precise path he should take from the boat to the train to Fogg's house on Saville Row. On better days he'd been able to take a carriage or cab, but on days on which his purse had been thin - more often than not - he'd walked the better part of the distance from the last station. He'd kept to his path, never strayed, and had been left alone by the citizens of London, more or less. 

It was the 'more or less' part that caused him difficulty at the moment. Having reached the ground floor of the hostel, and assuring himself that there was no one from the League or anywhere else waiting to accost him just outside the front door, he found himself lost. 

"Any idea where we are?" 

Gaspar tumbled out of the doorway after him, shifted the rucksack onto his back, and then glanced down either side of the narrow street. "I think it's called 'Lambeth.' We're south of the Thames - I know that." 

The morning chill had yet to burn off; Jules tucked his hands in the pockets of his coat when the cold stung his fingers. The area was as different from the well-kept townhouses on Saville Row as night from day. Chimneys belched heavy black soot, which covered the building facades . . . even the cobblestone street held a light dusting of ash. The people looked no less affected by their surroundings, hunched over, keeping to themselves. If anyone glanced at the pair of them, it was a sidelong, measuring look. 

He didn't like to think what they might be measuring him for. 

Gaspar stepped forward before Jules could stop him, accosting a man with a burlap sack over his shoulder. "Excuse me, Monsieur, could you tell me--" 

"No," warned Jules quickly. 

But it was too late. The laborer turned on Gaspar and cuffed him alongside the head, sending him back at least three paces on the sidewalk. "Lousy French," the man growled angrily beneath his breath, when Gaspar stumbled and fell heavily on his seat. 

Grabbing hold of Gaspar's shoulder, Jules hauled the student to his feet. "I beg your pardon, sir--" he began, in English. 

"Oy, 'sir' now, innit?" The man spat to one side, barely missing the toe of Jules' boot. "Naw wat so high 'n mighty, 'en?" 

Sudden embarrassment, as well as no small amount of anger, made his cheeks burn, but if his journeys with his friends had taught him nothing else it was to pick his battles wisely. Gaspar appeared bewildered and began to sputter, but Jules placed a hand on his arm, stopping him from moving forward. There seemed to be little enough else to draw interest in this area, which was heavily trafficked at this early morning hour and not with the sort of person who might be reasoned with. Other men were crossing the street to see what was happening. 

"Run," Jules whispered in Gaspar's ear, then took off past the laborer, giving the man a wide berth. Other pedestrians had stopped and he raced past them as well, glancing over his shoulder briefly only to assure himself that Gaspar was just behind him. A chorus of jeers and guffaws accompanied their flight, but other than a rock or two and a couple of steps toward them, there were no immediate signs of real pursuit. 

They had turned down at least two cross streets before they finally paused. Jules peered around the corner, taking a careful look behind them, when Gaspar struck him hard in the shoulder. 

"Coward!" he accused. "He insulted us." 

Relieved that they weren't being followed, Jules leaned against the wall and pushed Gaspar away from him with one hand. "I should have left you there and let him knock some sense into you, then?" 

"I couldn't have taken him on my own," agreed Gaspar reluctantly. "But the two of us--" 

"Would have been thrashed within an inch of our lives," countered Jules, returning to English again. "There were too many of them." 

"It was a matter of French honor." 

"It was a matter of us not getting our heads knocked in. Rebecca says sometimes it's better to lose the battle if it means winning the war." 

The color seemed to drain from Gaspar's face and he stepped back. "Rebecca," he noted quietly. "One of your English Foggs?" 

"Yes." Jules met his gaze evenly. 

"A strange thing for an English lady to say." 

"Rebecca isn't--" Jules closed his eyes for a moment and bit his lip. What could he say? That Rebecca Fogg was an agent of the British Secret Service was a piece of information he'd sworn to protect. 

"Isn't what?" pressed Gaspar. 

"Isn't your average English lady." With a sigh, Jules opened his eyes and met Gaspar's worried gaze. "She's special. She's . . . magnificent." 

"Magnificent, as only a dream can be." Gaspar took a long, slow breath, still watching Jules with cautious eyes. "When I hear you speak about them, they seem so real." 

"They _are_ real," said Jules, tapping Gaspar on the shoulder and forcing what he hoped would be an encouraging smile. "And I promised to prove it to you. Going north should get us to Saville Row. I think if we cross the Vauxhall Bridge, then work our way to St. James Park, I can find Fogg's townhouse from there." 

"You are either brilliantly mad, Jules, or madly brilliant." Gaspar stared at him a moment, then inclined his head toward the street. "All right, I'll follow you. And heaven help me if we actually do meet these people - I have no idea what one is supposed to say to figments of a friend's imagination." 

Jules chuckled at Gaspar's anxious sigh. "You'll have the whole walk to Saville Row to think about it," he promised. "That should be more than enough time to come up with something." 

It was not, in fact, so long of a walk as he might have feared. Now confidant that he was on vaguely recognizable ground, Jules led Gaspar through the costermongers' carts and the carriage traffic almost expertly. They even stopped at a pastry shop and spent a handful of pence - what Gaspar called 'English money' - on cinnamon buns. 

"It's a waste of money," complained Jules, watching Gaspar inhale the sticky dough. "When we arrive at Fogg's house, Passepartout will set out the most fabulous breakfast imaginable." 

"I would rather rely on--" Gaspar finished his roll and licked his fingers, "pastry in hand than food provided by your phantom friends." 

"There'll only be more for me, then." With a sigh, Jules handed over the roll he'd purchased for himself. Gaspar eyed him thoughtfully, giving Jules a second's pause to reconsider, but when Jules shook his head the pastry disappeared as quickly as the other had. 

A public water trough on a street they passed gave Gaspar a moment to clean off the remnants of breakfast - Jules wanted his friend presentable, at the very least - and they were soon walking up Albany, heading toward Saville Row. He was never so glad to pass through the wrought iron gate or knock on Fogg's door as he was at that very moment. 

"Now you'll see," he promised Gaspar, with a wide grin. 

Gaspar merely rolled his eyes in answer then folded his arms, a veritable Thomas waiting to be convinced of the Truth. 

That the door was opened by someone other than Passepartout was surprising, but not completely unexpected - he'd known Fogg to employ occasional staff as needed, to assist Passepartout with other chores and Jules hadn't yet worked out the strict code of duties assigned to various members of the serving staff. 

"Yes?" asked the gentleman at the door. He was dressed in black, with a gray waistcoat, his hair the color of coal. The eyes had been courteous at first, but grew colder and more formal as he studied Jules' apparel and then caught sight of Gaspar. "Service entrance is below." 

"No, I'm here to see Phileas Fogg." Jules shot a grin over his shoulder at Gaspar. "Tell him Jules Verne is here to see him." 

"Phileas Fogg?" The butler narrowed his eyes. "There's no one here by that name, sir." The last was said curtly, implying the term was being used more from form than correct function. "Perhaps you have the wrong address." 

The door started to close. Bewildered, Jules shot out his hand, holding the door open. "No - no, this is Fogg's house. Phileas Fogg. Where's Passepartout?" 

The butler placed both hands on the door in an attempt to close it. "There's no one here by that name. If you'd like to leave a card, the master will--" 

"Jules--" said Gaspar in warning, placing a hand on Jules' shoulder. 

Shaking off Gaspar's hold, Jules placed both hands on the door and fought the butler for possession, bracing his foot on the doorjamb. One of the butler's hands slipped and the door flew open, pulling Jules with it. He stumbled past the butler and into the foyer of the townhouse, sliding momentarily on the rug covering the parquet floor. 

The wallpaper was different - the oriental pattern replaced with vibrant blue flowers. The stand for canes and umbrellas had been brass, but a new elephant foot container was in its place. Even the gas fixtures were gone, the crystal having been replaced by etched glass. 

"Help!" cried the butler, hanging out the open front door. "Police! Burglars!" 

Gaspar grabbed Jules' arm and pulled him toward the door. "Come on, Jules! Do you want to get arrested?" 

"No - it's wrong. It's all wrong." Jules wrenched Gaspar away from him and headed into the parlor, but it, too had been changed. The bookshelves, the desk, the sideboard - they were all gone and replaced by white-lacquered furniture. The walls were covered with gold leaf, embossed paper and a myriad of framed photographs of people who were completely unfamiliar to Jules. "Fogg?" he called aloud. "Fogg? Passepartout? Where are you? What's happened?" 

Jules turned to see a man with a revolver enter the room - a stranger only half-dressed, waistcoat open and unbuttoned, feet bare. His long mustache quivered as he announced, "Don't move! I've a gun on you, young man." 

Heedless of the danger, Jules took a step toward him. "What have you done with Fogg and Passepartout! And Rebecca - Rebecca was here as well - what have you--?" 

The gun muzzle was squarely placed against Jules' chest. Suddenly aware of his danger, he took a deep breath, eyes wide as he focused on the unfamiliar face at the other end of the gun. 

"Thought that might get your attention," said the man smugly. "Are you mad? Opium-crazed, perhaps, hmn? Brown? Brown - don't stand there screaming for help, run out and grab a--" 

The rest of the sentence was lost in the 'crash' that occurred as Gaspar bashed the gunman in the head with a blue-china vase that imploded on impact. "Run!" he shouted at Jules, then grabbed his arm when Jules failed to respond immediately and tugged on him. 

"I can't leave!" countered Jules, bending down over the gunman. "I have to find out what's happened to Fogg, Rebecca, and Passepartout. They've been kidnapped, I know it!" 

The sound of boots in the hall and the screech of a police whistle caught his attention. Jules looked up to see Gaspar grabbed from behind by a stalwart uniformed officer, while another squeezed past and headed for himself. He reached for the gun, which had fallen to the floor, but something swished past his head and he fell back a step. He ducked and pivoted as the policeman came at him again. 

"Jules!" called Gaspar, having given up his own struggle for freedom. 

The warning came too late. Seeing the policeman lunge toward him out of the corner of his eye, Jules turned - directly into the swing of another policeman's blackjack. 

**** 

End of Part 2 

**** 


	3. Chapter 3

**** 

**Chapter Three**

"--And, I promise, Blessed Mother, _never_ to visit Mme Aver's house of sin again . . . except on my birthday, of course. Just let Jules wake--" 

"I'm awake," announced Jules. He opened his eyes a fraction of an inch then screwed them shut again when the pounding in his head refused to go away. "Could you pray a _bit_ more quietly, Gaspar." Again, he tried to open his eyes, and found the dim light a little less blinding. 

Lying curled up on a small board suspended from the wall by a chain on either end, Jules stared at Gaspar, who was sitting with his back to an ominous door. The room was no more than three paces wide and perhaps four long. The grill at the top of the door let in some small amount of light - enough to tell that it was Gaspar sitting across from him and that they were the only two people in the room. 

The prevalent smell was that of urine, only partially explained by a ceramic chamberpot that sat uncovered in a corner to one side of the door, although stale vomit and ancient sweat were also high on the list. Wrinkling his nose, Jules sniffed then pulled himself upright, holding onto the chain for support. "What happened?" 

"We've been arrested." Gaspar folded his arms and glared at him, then nodded toward the floor by Jules' feet. "There's a cup of water there, if you're thirsty." 

"Thank you." Jules leaned down to pick up the goblet, then grabbed for the chain again as the world spun suddenly. Gaspar instantly sat beside him and pulled him upright. He felt the mug pressed into his hands as he struggled to blink the bright stars from his field of vision, then closed his eyes and drank from the cup. 

It was tepid and slightly foul, but it was wet. Cupping his hand, he poured some of the water into his palm and splashed it onto his face, then wiped it away. The wetness helped to revive him somewhat and he opened his eyes fully. Using the chain as a support, he pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the door. 

The grill was far too high over the doorway to see out, but at least it let in a measure of fresh air and light. He turned back toward Gaspar. "I don't think we're getting out of here without help." 

"Small chance of that." Gaspar pulled his knees up to his chest, perching on the wooden bench. "I bribed one of the gendarmes into passing on a note to your father to the French embassy. We may be here a few days." He closed his eyes and sighed. "Your father is going to have me flayed alive for this." 

"It's my fault, and I'll tell him so," said Jules quickly. He looked over the door carefully and realized with some dismay that the hinges were on the outside. If this was a holding cell, the form fit the function perfectly. "At least we'll have shelter and be fed." He frowned, remembering the tepid water. "More or less." 

"You're forgetting the charges. We've been _arrested_, Jules." Gaspar sighed again, this time drawing Jules' attention. "We'll lose our place in the Sorbonne - they won't accept criminals. And you must admit that we're guilty - you broke into that man's house--" 

"I _fell_ into the house," corrected Jules, again turning his attention to the door. "And it was Fogg's house; I have an invitation to enter at any time." 

"--And I smashed a vase over his head. At least, I think it was a vase." Gaspar clenched his fists and glared up at Jules. "Will you stop talking about your imaginary friends. We're in serious straits right now. If I were you, I'd be thinking about what I was going to tell my father. Do you know how much money it'll cost him to settle this? And we'll still probably spend time in an English prison, too." He shuddered. "Although I'd rather spend a few weeks in a cell than have to face your father, to be honest." 

"That won't happen," explained Jules, again giving up the door as a lost cause. Getting another angry glare for his pains as he pushed his friend over to make room, he seated himself beside Gaspar. "Fogg, or Rebecca, or Passepartout will find us. Fogg has enough money and connections to make this go away - I'm certain of it." 

"What _kind_ of connections?" asked Gaspar quickly. "Because we certainly need a lawyer." 

"I think they're called 'barristers' here. And I think you need a solicitor to get one. But Fogg will know how to do that." 

"He's a lawyer, a 'barrister'?" pressed Gaspar. 

"He's a gentleman," said Jules, leaning back against the cold stone wall. He smiled over at his friend. "It's the same as it is in Paris - they all seem to know one another. Someone has a friend, who has a friend, who has a friend . . . and then we're free." 

Gaspar scowled, his eyes dubious. "That's a long line of friends." 

"True," agreed Jules. "Fogg seems to have many more acquaintances than friends. But the friends he has are _very_ powerful." 

There was a pause, then Gaspar's eyes lit from within, containing understanding. "Ah, _government_ friends. Yes?" 

Jules took a breath and looked away. He wasn't about to tell Gaspar that Fogg had almost become the head of the British Secret Service or that he'd been an agent for some time - that information was as privileged as Rebecca Fogg's real identity. Which meant that he couldn't contact Chatsworth, either, for how would a lowly French law student happen to know the head of the British Secret Service? 

Besides, Chatsworth would probably be more than happy to let him sit in a jail cell for days, or even weeks, without telling Fogg of his whereabouts. But if Chatsworth didn't know that Rebecca and Fogg were missing--? 

"We have to get out of here," he said softly, his eyes again surveying the door with studied interest. Rebecca had promised to teach him something about lock picking, but they'd never seemed to get around to it. Besides, he didn't have the tools she carried in her jewelry. A piece of long, thin metal, however, bent just _so_-- 

Jules rose from the wooden seat and patted it. "Empty your pockets." 

"What?" 

"Empty your pockets." 

Gaspar stared at him curiously, then began to search through his pockets, producing coins, bits of string, three glass marbles, the stub of a pencil, a couple of torn calling cards, a few broken but worn pieces of blue and green glass . . . nothing immediately useful. "I _did_ tell them that you were drunk," he said hesitantly, looking up at Jules through half-lowered lids, as if trying to anticipate his reaction. "They smelled beer on your vest and that seemed to help. Maybe they'll be easier on us. After all, we're just a couple of students and that man _was_ pointing a gun at you." 

Finding that his own pockets contained little more of interest - the innards of a broken watch that he'd taken apart, more pencil stubs, a bit of wax, more string . . . . 

"My pen-knife is gone," he complained. 

"They took mine as well," explained Gaspar, leaning back against the wall. "They also took my rucksack. And I didn't only tell them that you were drunk, Jules, but that . . . well, I was worried that you were having a spell of madness." 

The words didn't sink in as he stared at the items on the bench. The compass he and Passepartout had made was gone - he could half understand that - but the bit of purple velvet ribbon Rebecca had lost from her hair during a fight which he'd picked up and meant to give back to her . . . eventually . . . was also missing. His watch as well. If he thought about it, those items hadn't been in his pockets this morning when he'd awakened in the hostel. Anything that had tied him to the Aurora and his friends or their adventures together was gone. 

Or had they never been there in the first place? 

Jules drew in a sudden breath at the thought, then looked at Gaspar, who was watching him with a worried gaze. "They're real," he said aloud, as much to convince himself as to convince Gaspar. "Fogg and Passepartout and Rebecca - damn it, I've flown in the Aurora! I'm not about to doubt my own memories because you tell me they're wrong." 

Fear had replaced the worry in Gaspar's eyes. Abandoning the trinkets on the bench, he rose and placed his hand on Jules' shoulder. "It's going to be all right," he said quietly. "Just . . . stay calm. I'll get you out of this, I promise I will. And I'll tell you father it was my fault, as well. Just don't start shouting about the Legion or the League or God only knows what will hap--" 

"But the League _could_ have arranged this - all of this!" protested Jules. As Gaspar turned away in defeat, he added, in what he hoped was a calmer, measured tone, "Or . . . someone else. The Foggs have enemies, powerful enemies." 

"Just like they have powerful friends, hmn?" Gaspar picked up the bits and pieces from the bench and began to stuff them into his pockets again. "What kind of enemies would an English gentleman or an English lady, even a magnificent one, have? Creditors? Spurned suitors? Disgruntled servants?" Angry again, Gaspar threw a cold glance at him. "Think about it, Jules. Does that make any sense?" 

"But they aren't--!" 

And the words stopped there, because he could say no more without betraying his friends. How could he explain to Gaspar that Fogg's actions as a secret agent had left a trail of defeated antagonists behind him and that Rebecca's own adventures were currently building a matching set of villainous fiends seeking revenge? There was also Count Gregory and the League, which might include members of more than half of the most noble and respectable houses in Europe, any of whom would be happy for a chance to deliver Fogg, Rebecca, and the Aurora into their leader's clutches. 

"They aren't _real_," said Gaspar, straightening. "And the sooner you understand that, Jules, the sooner this madness will be over." He took a step forward and grabbed Jules' hand. "Mon Dieu, don't you understand what'll happen to you if you keep this up? They'll put you away, my friend. They'll put you in a dark hole and they'll slam the barred door behind you and never look back. Your family will cease to speak of you - you'll be the mistake, the accident, the unfortunate one. The only thing you'll hear will be the screams of those other damned souls interred there with you . . . until you won't care any more and your own screams join theirs." 

Jules broke into a cold sweat at the force and earnestness of Gaspar's words - it was all too easy to envision. He'd learned at an early age to keep his dreams and visions mostly to himself, passing them off as stories meant to entertain his school friends and younger brother and sisters. But when the visions grew stronger and intruded upon his waking hours . . . he _had_ thought he was going mad. Arago had brought him back from the brink of it, had helped him to control them, to forget the worst of them for a time. And then the Foggs and Passepartout had entered his life with their remarkable airship, accepting his visions far more easily than he himself . . . . 

Just _after_ he'd decided that he was going mad? 

Pulling away from Gaspar, he clenched his fists and closed his eyes. "No," he whispered. "I am _not_ going mad. I'll die before I'll let them do that to me." 

He felt the touch of Gaspar's hand on his shoulder. "I'll fight them every step of the way, my friend. I'll do everything I can to save you . . . but you must help me to save you, yes? You must forget about these phantom people. You must go _home_." 

"Home." 

The word echoed in his mind and, for an instant, he saw not his room and house in Nantes nor his loft in Paris, but the Aurora. Opening his eyes, he shuddered, and turned toward Gaspar, wanting desperately to promise to return to the quiet life of a student in Paris, to forget these fantasies . . . . 

But his friends were missing. They could be in danger. 

They could be dead. 

The grating of the lock of the sturdy cell door startled him. Both he and Gaspar turned. A uniformed policeman stood in the opening, blackjack at the ready, along with a man who wore thin, wire-rimmed glasses. He was of middling height, and his suit, although not of the finer cuts, was a respectable tweed. The black bag he carried in his hand proclaimed him a doctor. 

"Which one of you received the blow?" he asked, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. 

Gaspar pointed to Jules. "He did. In fact, he was dizzy when he awakened. I was trying to get him to sit down before he fainted again." Gaspar pushed Jules down onto the clear section of the bench and whispered, "I told them your father was a prominent lawyer in France and that there'd be an international incident if anything happened to you." Then he stepped back before Jules could answer and motioned the doctor forward. "We were drunk, Monsieur. It was only the spirits. You can still smell them on him." 

Jules watched Gaspar's performance with wide eyes, then looked to the policeman at the door, who seemed as stalwart and unimpressed as before. The doctor approached him and none too gently grabbed his head with his free hand, dropping the medical bag at his feet. "Which side, then? Ah, there it is." 

"Ow!" Jules winced and tried to pull away as the doctor probed the bump on his skull with his finger, but the man held him firmly. 

"Skin's not broken and there's no blood - I'd say you've nothing more than a lump." Releasing him, the doctor stepped back and sniffed delicately. "You're right, I can smell the drink on him. Can you speak, young man?" 

"I wasn't drunk," protested Jules, annoyed at having been manhandled. When the policeman took a step into the room at his sharp tone, he looked down and away. "It's Fogg's house, I swear it is! I've an open invitation. I'm a - a friend of the family." 

"That's seems even more likely," said the doctor, the note of kindness in his voice causing Jules to look up in hope. "I've been down Saville myself on calls, ended up at the wrong residence more than once. But breaking into a house," he turned toward Gaspar, "and assaulting the owner?" 

"I fell into the house," answered Jules. "The butler released the door and before I knew it I was inside. My friend, Gaspar--" he swallowed and nodded hesitantly toward Gaspar, who waved slightly when the doctor turned to regard him, "thought I was going to be killed. The man had a gun pointed at my chest." 

The doctor hesitated, studying the young men whom - Jules hoped - looked generally clean and respectable. "Is that the way of it, sergeant?" 

The policeman cleared his throat. "Mostly, sir. I came in to see the one bash Mr. Carfair over the head with the ceramic, but Mr. Carfair _was_ pointing a gun at the other, right up against his chest, the muzzle was." The policeman cleared his throat again. "Course when we came in, that other grabbed for the gun - fought like a tiger, he did, like a madman." 

"We'll pay for the vase," said Jules contritely, trying to ignore the sharp look from Gaspar. 

"It was a chamberpot," corrected the policeman. "And damned lucky you was that it were empty." 

Meeting Gaspar's eyes, Jules found his friend had paled at the pronouncement, but turned his attention immediately back to the doctor. "My father's a lawyer in France, sir, in Nantes. This was all a misunderstanding. Gaspar tried to send word to the French embassy, but--" 

His shrug elicited a sympathetic nod from the doctor. "Yes. I traveled a bit in my youth, know what it's like to be in trouble in a foreign country. But help from France is likely to take some time, young man. What about this friend who lives on Saville Row? Perhaps I could deliver a note to him for you?" 

Gaspar stepped forward, but Jules shot him an angry glare, stopping him in his tracks. "His name is Phileas Fogg. The house - I thought that was his house, I'm certain of it. His family estate is Shillingworth Magna, up-country. There's telegraph apparatus at the house and in the village nearby. If you could send a telegraph--" Jules grabbed the crumpled five pound note from the bench, where it rested with the remainder of his belongings and handed it to the doctor, "--perhaps someone might know where to locate him." 

The doctor took the note, then nodded. "Very well. And your name, young man?" 

"Jules Verne, of Paris." He hesitated for a minute, then added, "The staff at Shillingworth Magna should recognize my name; they'll be certain to answer." 

"It would be better to send a telegraph to your _father_," hissed Gaspar, then turned a smile at the policeman. "He'll be _sure_ to answer." 

The doctor glanced at Gaspar, then back at Jules. "Which then, your father or this Phileas Fogg?" 

"Fogg," answered Jules immediately. "He's closer and he'll be able to do something. My father--" he swallowed, "--if I can avoid contacting him--?" 

"I see." The doctor's smile was faint. "As soon as the answer arrives, I'll return it to you." 

The doctor turned, as if to walk away, but Gaspar caught his arm. After a quick, worried glance at Jules, he added, "My friend hasn't been well lately. He has spells . . . delusions. Sometimes he sees things that aren't there." 

"Gaspar!" hissed Jules, as the doctor glanced back at him. 

But Gaspar hadn't released the doctor and refused to meet Jules' gaze. "His father sent him on this trip to recuperate - we all thought he was well. But this morning . . . he can't be held accountable for his actions. I'll admit that I struck that man, Mr. Carfair, over the head, but Jules wasn't in his right mind, sir. He needs care, medical care." 

Jules shuddered inwardly at the faint look of unease in the doctor's gaze. "I'll send the telegram," said the doctor, to Gaspar. "And, I promise you no matter what the outcome, I will see to it that your friend's condition will be taken into account." 

"Thank you," sighed Gaspar in relief, finally releasing his hold and backing away from the policeman's imposing glare. "Thank you." 

Jules waited until the door had closed behind them before he ran forward and grabbed Gaspar by the shoulders, shaking him. "What are you doing? He's going to send the telegraph for us. And you tell him that I'm mad?" 

Gaspar freed himself and backed against the wall, glancing away from Jules nervously. "I told him that you were ill. He's a doctor. He'll be able to help you." 

"But I'm not mad!" protested Jules. Throwing his hands into the air in exasperation, he then returned to the bench and began to gather up the remainder of his belongings. "You'll see - when the telegram reaches Fogg, he'll come immediately and straighten this out. And if he's not at Shillingworth Magna, they'll try to reach him for us." 

"Jules, the telegraph is a wonderful invention, but it won't do miracles; you can't use it to send a message to someone who doesn't exist." 

Tucking the last bit of string in his pocket, he straightened and met Gaspar's gaze. "We'll get an answer," he said evenly. "As certain as I'm sane, I promise you that we'll get an answer." 

"I hope so, if only for your sake." Gaspar slid down the corner wall and drew his knees to his chest, glaring at Jules. 

For his own part, Jules seated himself on the bench and ignored his friend, staring instead at the lock and trying to devise a way to create a lock-pick that would withstand an iron bolt from a few pieces of glass, some string, and some watch gears. 

Before the better part of an hour had passed, Gaspar's head had slumped forward into his knees, his soft snoring confirming Jules' suspicion that he'd fallen asleep. Never having been comfortable with boredom, Jules continued to work on the problem of the lock-pick. The wire spring from the watch gears was too thin and malleable to work on its own, but it could be used to hold two ground pieces of glass together. If he bent the gears around the outside and fastened then by twisting the wire around them, he might be able to build something just long enough and strong enough to pick the lock. That would, of course, mean waking Gaspar to retrieve the glass. 

However annoyed and angry he might be with Gaspar, Jules couldn't bring himself to do something so petty. Besides, waking Gaspar would mean that he thought they would need a lock-pick because no other rescue would be forthcoming and Gaspar would have won. Jules was certain that once Fogg or Rebecca or Passepartout arrived, everything would be sorted out. That was, of course, if the telegraph message reached any of them. 

Not finding them at the house in Saville Row still puzzled him. If the League had taken them, why go through the trouble of changing the decoration and installing a new 'owner'? That would be quite a bit of work for absolutely no return and quite unlike the League's style. Perhaps his friends weren't in any danger. Perhaps Phileas Fogg had decided in the middle of the night to sell the house or had lost it in a game of chance? Not completely impossible, though highly improbable that the owner should redecorate so thoroughly in a matter of hours. 

Gaspar had been right on at least one account - none of this made sense. For the Foggs and Passepartout to be missing, for the house on Saville Row to be different, for the ribbon and compass and watch not to be among his possessions when he awakened in a strange room in London, accompanied by a friend he didn't recognize? For his notebook, which seldom if ever left his sight, to be changed so utterly and yet the notes contained within written by his own hand . . . . 

A chill ran down his spine as Jules realized that there _was_ an answer that was logical, an answer that made sense - he was, as Gaspar claimed, mad. How many times had he day-dreamed of some device or object, seeing it so clearly before him that he felt as if he could reach out and touch it . . . only to be startled back to a reality in which others stared at him in surprise or annoyance or fear? Had his delusions deepened to such a point that he had imagined the rest of it as well? If his eyes could deceive him, what about his other senses? The smell of Rebecca's perfume, the taste of a fine claret shared with Fogg, the feel of grease and oil on his hands as he and Passepartout tended to the propellers or worked on a new gadget . . . all illusions? 

Closing his eyes, he tried to deny the possibility, and yet what had his adventures with his friends been but fantastic? Mystical fires, men from the stars and giant rockets built to propel missiles to far cities or to the moon, vampires and evil spirits and dismembered crusaders with fanatical plans for world domination . . . . 

"No," he whispered, managing to push forward at least that sound into the oppressive silence of the cell. "No." 

He turned the matter over in his mind, upside down and sideways, and still the answer came out the same way each time. He could not deny the logic of it. His only hope was that a piece was missing, there was something not being taken into consideration. 

Time passed far too slowly and it seemed an eternity before the metal lock on the cell door grated angrily again. This time, the door was only opened part way, enough to allow the doctor and the policeman to enter the room before it was drawn all but closed again. 

Jules leapt to his feet when the doctor entered, glancing to Gaspar to find his friend wearily wiping his sleep from his eyes. 

"This is your answer," said the doctor coldly, holding a piece of paper out to him. 

The paper was solid in his hands, but might have crumbled into insubstantial dust for all the help the words offered him. 

"There is no such place as Shillingworth Magna," said the doctor aloud. "Nor town nearby. Nor a person by the name of Phileas Fogg. I have checked and rechecked, even turned to the social registry and the post - the man does not exist. Which means, young man, that you are either a skilled liar or as mad as our friend suggests. As this exercise seems the poorest sort of joke, I would suspect the latter rather than the former. Have you any explanation on your behalf?" 

Jules stared down at the paper in disbelief, only vaguely aware that Gaspar was standing beside him, his hand on his shoulder. "No," he whispered. "Fogg is real." He looked up at the doctor and swallowed. "They're real, they're all real. Did you spell it correctly, with two g's?" 

"With or without an extra 'g,' there is no Fogg in London, apart from inclement weather." 

Gaspar's arm moved around his shoulder, shaking him lightly. "Jules? Look at me - I believe you. If you say they'll real, I'll believe you." 

His voice was slow, soft, and steady, the tone one would use with a frightened child. Some part of Jules was angered by it, but he found it calming. He stared at Gaspar. "They - they _are_--" 

And he couldn't quite finish the words, because he couldn't entirely bring himself to believe them. 

It was not until too late that he realized the door had been opened wider; the doctor stepped back and two men entered, carrying something with them. A blanket? No, a jacket, with arms that had long sleeves. It was a gray, shapeless thing with locks and buckles. 

"I'm not mad!" cried Jules, his fist reaching for Gaspar's waistcoat even as the sergeant pulled Gaspar from him. "I'm not mad!" 

Fear of the constraining jacket and of the hard-muscled, thuggish men that threatened to place him into it gave him strength he hadn't known he'd possessed. He ducked, he shifted. When one grabbed his leg, he placed his arm around the other man's neck and bit his ear. Gaspar called to him, crying for him to be calm, to relax and they wouldn't hurt him, but Jules was not going to give up without a fight. 

Hitting the floor on all fours, he scrambled away from the two men and headed for the open door. He barely made the threshold when a fist came out of nowhere, colliding with his stomach and knocking the wind out of him. He crumpled to the ground and for a long moment thought that he would never again take a breath. 

The two attendants bundled him into the confining jacket without any care for bruises or pain and he allowed them - he could not breathe and was helpless. His field of vision held the two faces of new men standing above him - they were impeccably dressed, with expressions of stone and eyes that were dark and keen and deadly. They reminded him very much of Phileas Fogg, or as Fogg had been when they'd first met in his garret - they were agents for the crown, having that look of single-minded dedication to their task about them. 

He had no doubt of that. Nor did he have any doubt they had no interest in him, glancing down at him dispassionately, almost as an unfortunate obstacle, something foul and distasteful that had fallen into their path and must be removed before they could proceed. Even as his breath came back, he stared up at them, fascinated, until the attendants flipped him onto his stomach and placed a knee in his back, bending his arms behind him and locking them into place. 

As they lifted Jules to his feet, he saw one of the sharply dressed men hand a sealed letter to the sergeant. The policeman took the letter, opened it, and then snapped to attention before he'd scanned more than a few lines. The policeman stood to one side and watched as Gaspar edged further back into the room, less concerned with Jules than with the men who were entering, removing their hats and then gloves with a menacing ease. 

The door closed. Jules swallowed and found himself faced with the doctor. 

"Your friend was well-advised to tell me of your condition," said the doctor sharply. "As I promised him, you'll be cared for properly - the government is not so inhumane as to hold a madman responsible for his actions." He glanced back at the door, the barest glimmer of compassion in his eyes. "Your friend might think you lucky, after all is said and done." 

Barely able to stand, Jules let the attendants on either side of him support his weight, the fight taken out of him. "Please, he's done nothing wrong," he said to the doctor. "As I said, we'll pay for the vase, the chamberpot." 

"Nothing wrong?" The doctor glanced back at him, eyes wide in astonishment. "He's murdered the undersecretary to the foreign office - Mr. Carfair died of the blow. And your friend being French, well, there are questions to be answered. Very important questions asked by very important people." The doctor leaned forward with what Jules suspected was meant to be a kindly smile. "But that's none of your concern, young man. We'll take you to a place where you'll be well cared for, I assure you." 

The doctor nodded toward the attendants, then turned to the cell door again. Jules struggled in their grasp, but each movement sent pain up his twisted arms. He managed to turn enough to catch a glimpse as the door opened. Gaspar was half-seated on the floor, held suspended by a hand that grasped him by the neck of his shirt. One of the men had a fist drawn back, as if to strike him in the face. 

The doctor closed the door behind him, cutting off the view before the blow fell. 

**** 

End of Part 3 

**** 


	4. Chapter 4

**** 

**Chapter Four**

They had covered his head with a wrap before having dragged him from the station, but he'd heard the whispered murmurs of passersby. Those noises had been drowned out as he'd been thrown into the back of a police wagon, the doors shut stolidly behind him. Then to be lifted like so much garbage in a sack, carried down corridors he could not ever hope to retrace, until they dropped him onto a pile of foul-smelling straw, removed the wrap from his head, and slammed shut the broad iron door. 

The fight had gone out of him. Jules leaned his head back against the slimy, mildew-covered brick of the wall and stared up at the ceiling. The cold chill of the place drained the warmth from his bones and the smell, which he had thought appalling at the police station cell, was much darker and older here. If that had been depressing, this place drained all hope and light from the soul, leeching it from the body with every breath, until the heart would fall still and cold from sheer despair. 

He considered that he might be in some sort of holding cell until he was examined and some medical determination made as to the depths of his insanity - in what circle of this medical hell would he be placed? And why should it matter, when they were all abandoned to the damnation of the spirit? 

That there were no screams of other condemned souls was somewhat comforting - he'd found himself dreading that the most. But the silence began to wear in upon him over time and he'd found himself humming or reciting words from a poem he'd learned in his childhood, just to ease the weight of the soundlessness from his ears. 

The pressure of his bladder was intense, but he fought against soiling himself - that he would _not_ do. If he could endure the pain of his arms belted behind his back, he could endure that as well. It was something to fight for. It was important to have something to fight for. He would have fought for his sanity, but he wasn't entirely certain that it hadn't already been lost. 

Tears welled in his eyes as he stared upward and he fought those as well. He would not weep for his own plight, for his condition. When he wept, it would be because he could finally admit that there was no other answer, that he _was_ mad and that Fogg, Rebecca, Passepartout, and even the Aurora were nothing more than figments of his imagination, fantasies and phantoms in which he had found comfort. If they, who had felt so real and brought him such friendship and adventure and contentment in himself, were only phantoms, what use had he for the world? Better to drift among those fantasies, to have more adventures and suffer pain and love, and loss, and victory, than to remain here. 

His fear now was not that they might be illusions - for they well might - but that he might not be granted the experience of living in those illusions again. Then, and only then, would he grant himself the gift of tears, because then he would be truly lost. To be mad would not be such an evil thing if he could share his madness with those friends. 

There were candles in the hall outside the cell - he watched them for a while and tried to calculate the passage of time, but they were too distant to be measured accurately by eye. He fought his way to his feet and rose to pace the length of the room, only to discover that his guards had fastened a manacle around his foot. It was attached to a chain at the base of the wall - he could move three feet to the left or to the right at most, and perhaps two foot more from the wall, which brought him within a foot's reach of the bars. If he lay down upon the floor and stretched himself to his full height, he could easily reach the bars, but what was there to do but chew through them? The thought of having spent well over an hour devising a lock-pick that could not possibly have worked gave him a moment's laugh, but the sound was rough and threatened to end in tears. Beside, the movement didn't help his full bladder overly much. 

So Jules sat. And he watched. And he waited. He could not have said for what, precisely, but that some small hope still stirred within him that Fogg would wander in, comment on the filth of the place and the situation in which he'd found himself, and unlock the bars. Or that Rebecca would appear, suspended from the ceiling with a lock-pick in her teeth and give him back the use of his hands and the ribbon he'd taken from her with equal élan. Or that Passepartout might move aside a paving stone from the floor and reveal himself in a tunnel he'd dug with the use of a smaller, portable version of the mole, so that they might flee . . . . 

No matter how hard he thought about any of these possibilities and could visualize them in his mind, down to the smallest nuance of a word or inflection of a movement, they were not nor could they ever be as real as the memories he'd had of his friends in the past. However he might wish it, he would not be allowed to escape into the depths of his mind. 

Which meant that he had only to watch the candle, or the scurrying of the rats, or walk the length of the chain . . . and wait. 

Jules heard them coming down the hall, levered himself to his feet without using his hands, and stood. It seemed to take forever and their shadows preceded them, but eventually one of the thuggish attendants appeared, dragging Gaspar, his right arm folded behind him and pulled upward. The door was thrown open - why lock it when Jules was chained and constrained by the jacket? - Gaspar was thrown into the room, and then the attendant locked the door behind him with a heavy iron key. 

Having landed almost at his feet, Gaspar looked up at him, then fought to push his hands beneath himself and rose from the floor shakily. "I thought - I'd never - see you again." 

Even in the dim light, Jules could see welts and bruises on Gaspar's hands, the rising purple marks along the side of his face and a blackened eye showing that he'd been well and truly beaten. "Are you all right?" he asked. 

Gaspar laughed, the sound like the barking of a dog. He touched the constraining jacket, then turned Jules sideways. "Let me see if I can unbuckle that - I have to get you out of there. Merde - I'm sorry," he apologized, as the cloth was pulled tight. "My hands are shaking--" 

"Why did they bring you here?" 

"They decided that you might not be mad. And they think we're spies. Hold _still_," Gaspar said sharply, when Jules tried to turn at the words. "I've almost - got - it." 

The sleeves fell loose and to his sides. Jules stared for a moment, having little control over his arms or his fingers, then bit his lips at the tingling sensation and pain when the blood began to flow again. Gaspar ran his hands down Jules' arms for a moment or two, then pulled off the jacket slowly. 

His fingers were numb, but feeling was beginning to return. "Sit," ordered Jules, pointing to the pile of straw and seeing Gaspar sway on his feet. But before he could fall, Jules caught his arm and helped him down to a seated position. That having been done, he walked as far as the chain allowed, quietly relieved his bladder against the wall, and then returned to his friend. 

It felt better to be in control, to have something to do. Jules squatted down beside Gaspar and touched his friend's shoulder, but released him when Gaspar winced. "Say that again - why they released you?" 

"They haven't released me. They want to question us both, together." Gaspar took a breath, then looked down at the floor. "I told them about your father, about your phantom people, but they didn't believe me. They want to see for themselves, prove that you're mad and not a spy." 

"But . . . spies?" Jules stared at him. "What did you tell them?" 

"Nothing! There was nothing _to_ tell them. Just the note to the French ambassador. It had your father's name, said that we were in trouble, and asked him to cable your father right away." Gaspar blinked. "That would be enough to think that we're spies? A note to the French ambassador?" 

Jules rose to his feet and shook his head. "No, that wouldn't be enough." And then he turned his gaze to the far wall and wondered if the phantom people he'd half-convinced himself weren't real, _were_ real. If he were known to be associated with both Fogg and Rebecca, what else was anyone in spycraft to think? 

"Then what?" pressed Gaspar, a note of annoyance in his tone. 

"Yes," said a voice at the door. "Tell us your thoughts, Mr. Verne. We'd be most interested." 

The two agents were back - hard men with fashionable clothing and dark, arresting gazes. One unlocked the door, let the other in, and then closed it behind him before taking a step toward Jules. "Most interested," he repeated. 

Gaspar gave a sharp intake of breath as the men drew near and scrambled to his feet - Jules held out his hand to help him, but kept his eyes on the two men. "That we're French should be enough for some," he said tautly. 

The man smiled in the way he'd seen Fogg smile many times before - confident, certain, and utterly disbelieving. A smaller key appeared in his hand and he showed it to Jules. "I've no fear of madmen," he explained. "And I _will_ have the answers I want." 

He froze as the man leaned down to unlock the chain from his ankle, the manacle falling into the straw. Jules fought the urge to rub the circulation back into the ankle and foot, still watching the man, knowing that when he struck he'd like to at least see a glimpse of the blow before it hit. 

"Your friend claims that you're students," said the agent, tucking the key deftly back into his waistcoat pocket. "Why should we believe you?" 

"Because it's the truth." 

"Is it?" The man moved like a snake, uncoiling and striking, one hand pushing Jules' shoulder against the wall and the other pressing on Jules' neck. "Is it?" 

"Yes," he gasped, staring into the man's eyes and willing him to accept the truth. He saw the same cold, steel in the man's gaze and realized that it would be like fighting Fogg - not a comforting thought, as he'd never hope to win _that_ match. "We're students," he managed, barely getting the words out as the hand closed tighter on his neck - he was beginning to see stars. 

The hand left his throat and he hoped for a moment he'd given the right answer, but a blow to his stomach dispelled that notion entirely. He doubled over and fell into the straw. 

His attacker didn't follow, but straightened, gesturing the other man toward Gaspar. "Fairly lucid for a madman, but I still think this other one knows more." 

They had counted him out, a mistake Fogg never would have made. Jules smiled inwardly at the thought, realizing, too, that he'd fallen atop the length of chain that had been released from his ankle. He grabbed it and held it behind his back and along his leg, out of sight of the men, then pretended to stagger to the wall and lean on it heavily. 

"No!" he called, drawing their attention as one lifted a hand to strike Gaspar. "He doesn't know anything. Leave him alone! I'll - I'll tell you . . . ." 

The man with the keys glanced at his compatriot, shared a smile, and then turned back to Jules. In two wide steps he waded through the straw and grasped the back of Jules' collar, as Jules turned his face to the wall. "Yes? And what do you have to--?" 

His fist clenched around the manacle, Jules used it as he'd seen both Fogg and Rebecca use brass knuckles. He connected with the underside of his attacker's chin, then followed through, as Rebecca had taught him, carrying the punch upward. 

The success of it surprised him, as well as his attacker - the man fell as if he'd been struck in the head by a beam. But there was little time to savor the victory - the other agent was almost upon him. Thankfully, he'd allowed the chain to drag, hidden in the straw. Jules pulled to the left sharply, the loop of chain caught around the agent's leg and dropped him. He landed softly enough in the straw, but Jules leapt atop him and used the manacle in the same way he'd dropped the first man - one blow to the chin and his attacker was out. 

Jules fell back in the straw, panting and trying to catch his breath for a moment. His limbs were loose and shaking like willow branches in the wind and there was a Gordian knot in his stomach. This was not something he found he enjoyed, although he well understood how both Fogg and Rebecca had developed a taste for it. "I think I'll stick to writing," he murmured to himself, "and leave the fighting to them." 

Something warmed inside of him at the thought, because he knew then that he'd come to accept their reality once again. No phantoms could have taught him to defend himself so well and so ably. Nor would phantoms have known enough not to demand that he take pleasure, as they did, from actions he found so utterly disagreeable. 

Gaspar was standing above him, his features cast in a look of utter amazement and delight. He held out a hand and pulled Jules to his feet, announcing, "Dear God, but Fogg would be proud of you if he'd seen that!" 

Shaking off Gaspar's hold, Jules stared at him, anger quickly replacing his confusion. Gaspar paled and cleared his throat. "I mean," he sputtered, "that is to say, that's what he'd think if he existed--" 

A coldness filled Jules, an anger both chilling and deadly - he'd seen it in Fogg's eyes before but if he'd felt it himself, he'd never known it to be so raw and close to the surface. This instant recognition of Gaspar's betrayal stung him deeply, not only because he'd begun to think of him as a friend, but had worried for him and about him. To have been right at the start and to have put those suspicions away based on human feeling, on compassion . . . the thought that he'd been so wrong frightened him. 

"You," he declared softly, "are _not_ my friend." 

If there was an echo of Fogg in the words, Gaspar seemed not to hear it, but would have been better served to take notice of it. The blank expression shifted slightly into a grin, a look that mirrored the agents' expressions, all confidence and mastery, a belief they had the upper hand and could not be beaten. 

"No, I'm not," admitted Gaspar, sounding more English than French. He straightened, all weariness gone from his posture. "What are you going to do about it?" 

There was no thought involved. Jules automatically shifted the weight of his left foot, the chain rattling faintly in the straw. Gaspar looked down and Jules used the manacle one more time, enough force in the blow to knock Gaspar into the wall. His former friend hung there for a moment, stunned, then dropped into the straw. 

Jules was hard-pressed not to go after Gaspar and forced himself to remain where he was, the knot rising in his stomach again after a moment. He threw the manacle down in disgust, barely noticing that his knuckles were bleeding, then picked up the door key from the agent. Opening the door, he slipped through then closed it again, the lock clicking shut with a satisfying 'thwick' as he turned the key. 

That was tucked into his waistcoat. Before he had more than a second to breathe, collect his thoughts, or move more than twenty paces down the corridor, he heard voices. Jules dropped back into the shadows, found an alcove, and waited until they passed. He kept to the wall, heading in the direction from which the agents and Gaspar had come, following dank, musty corridors until he finally found a flight of well-worn wooden steps that led upward to a door. 

Stealth had never been one of his natural skills, but he gave the matter his full attention, reaching the top of the steps, opening the door without so much of a creak . . . but a floorboard beneath the carpet gave him away. The hall he entered was no longer ancient stone, but wallpapered elegance, with bright crystal gaslight sconces on the walls. If this were an asylum, he'd found the administrator's residence without a doubt. 

"You there!" 

There was a man at the bottom of the stairs. Jules slammed the door, then turned the lock and looked around. As heavy fists began to pound on the door, he fled down the hallway, came upon a wide, carpeted staircase, then headed up. Pausing in the middle he realized he'd chosen the wrong direction, but a crash from the hall behind him and the pounding of feet gave him no choice but to proceed if he was going to maintain his lead. 

Just as he reached the top of the steps, he bumped into a liveried footman, who was wearing a powered wig - the servant was no older than himself. They stared at one another for several seconds before both turned at the call from the bottom of the steps - "There's the fellow! Catch him!" 

As the footman reached out for him, Jules grabbed the powered wig and tugged it down over the young man's face, then placed a foot in the center of the servant's stomach and pushed him back onto his ass on the landing. He took just a moment to make sure the man wasn't going to go tumbling down the stairs, then headed along the hall again. 

They were closer now - pursuit no more than ten paces behind him - and he was running out of breath. The cuts on his right hand left a trail of bloody marks on the wallpaper and banisters wherever he touched them. Throwing caution to the wind, Jules opened the door to a room in hopes of finding a window he could use to reach the outside of the house and perhaps climb down to safety. He turned to check pursuit as he entered, saw four men - two in servant's livery - come pelting down the hall, stepped inside-- 

And caught his foot on the carpet edge at the doorway. He sailed to the center of the room and landed spectacularly on his stomach, knocking the wind out of himself, then covered his head with his hands in case his pursuers had any idea about kicking his brains in for providing them an extensive chase. There was noise at the door, an ecstatic, "There's the bast--" cut off in mid-sentence, and the rustle of skirts. 

Parting his fingers, Jules Verne found himself confronted by an imposing series of dark skirts and crinolines, at the very top of which appeared the visage of the Queen of England, who stared down at him with apparent surprise. 

She was, in any case, the personage he least expected or wanted to see at the moment. 

**** 

End of Part 4 

**** 


	5. Chapter 5

**** 

**Chapter Five**

There were footsteps behind Jules - the air left his lungs as a boot was planted in the small of his back and someone grabbed his arms, pinning them. 

"Beg pardon, your Majesty," said a rough voice somewhere to his left. "But he--" 

"Out!" called the Queen. "All of you." Then, as Jules had been dragged up to his knees, he found the Queen studying him, her eyes filled with outrage. "No, leave Mr. Verne. Thomas, we shall want a tea brought immediately and do _not_ spare the brandy." Her gaze rose beyond him. "Out!" 

Jules wasn't entirely certain of where to look and decided the floor was most appropriate. The carpet beneath his knees was thick and welcoming - at the moment he'd have thought nothing of stretching out upon it and falling asleep, if not for the royal presence. Things standing where they were, he was quite sure it really wouldn't matter if he did just that - they couldn't execute him twice, could they? 

"You may rise, Mr. Verne," announced Queen Victoria regally. 

Somehow he managed the strength to make it all the way to his feet, where he wavered unsteadily. Still not daring to meet her eyes, he glanced around and found himself in some sort of sitting room or parlor. The Queen was watching him from a settee and there was a small serving table before her, with a cushioned chair opposite it. He saw her hand wave toward the chair. "In view of your recent experiences, we think it better that you be seated before you fall down, Mr. Verne." 

"Thank you, your Majesty." Jules took slow, measured steps over to the chair, certain that his knees were going to give way. He reached for the back as he approached, but pulled his hand away when he realized his skin was covered with dirt and other filth. 

When he hesitated, she added, "Furniture can be cleaned, Mr. Verne, do seat yourself. Thomas shall bring in a hot towel with your tea, so that you may sup with some comfort." 

It seemed absurd to say thank you again. Jules nodded his acceptance of the statement, moved to sit down, then paused. He looked up, for the first time daring to purposefully meet Queen Victoria's gaze. "Your Majesty, if I may, I'm worried about Mr. Fogg, Miss Fogg, and Passepartout. Are they in any danger?" 

If forced to put a description to the Queen's expression at the moment, he might have chosen something slightly more extensive than surprise . . . perhaps even shock. "Oh dear," she said softly, her gloved fingers moving to her lips. She looked away from him for a moment, then returned her gaze and lowered her hand from her mouth. "Mr. Verne, Miss Fogg is most correct is stating that you never cease to amaze one. I can assure you that Mr. Fogg, Miss Fogg, and Mr. Fogg's valet are all in good health at the moment. Please be content to seat yourself." 

"Thank you, your majesty." His gratitude heartfelt, Jules sat down on the chair, which was surprisingly comfortable. He kept his gaze to the floor, not quite knowing what to do or say. It wouldn't have astonished him in the least to find that he was still in the cell, tied up in the confining jacket, having dreamed his escape up to this very minute . . . if his knuckles didn't still sting from having struck Gaspar with the manacle. 

"Are you in any pain, Mr. Verne?" 

The Queen's solicitous inquiry threw him out of his own thoughts for a moment. Jules licked his lips, then dared an upward glance at her. "Not so much, your majesty, no." 

"Miss Fogg is correct in that matter, as well - you are a dreadful prevaricator, Mr. Verne. You would do well to confine your fictions to matters of entertainment." 

There was laughter in her eyes. Was the Queen of England joking with him? 

Jules managed a rueful smile, wondering just when exactly, he'd slipped entirely into madness. 

A knock sounded at the door and he started, half-turning in his chair to see an older footman enter pushing a small, wheeled table. Someone closed the door behind him - mysterious gloved hands - and the footman wheeled the table directly to the Queen, bowing before setting a lace tablecloth and proceeding to place the tea things. 

Jules watched the process with some amazement - it was handled with the precision of Swiss clockwork. He'd seen Passepartout behave in this fashion now and again, particularly when he was angry with something Fogg had done. There was respect in the movements, but no passion, no interest. 

"Sir?" 

A white, wet towel was extended to him on a pair of silver tongs, having been lifted from a covered salver. Jules took the towel hesitantly, grimacing as his fingers immediately left prints upon the snow-like surface. "Thank you." He wiped the grime and blood from his hands, then touched the last clean corner of it to his face, turning away from the Queen and her footmen so they couldn't see him wince as the cloth rubbed over his bruises. 

"Don't remove too much of your experience, Mr. Verne," said the Queen, in an even tone. "We would have them see precisely what they've made of you." 

Her words made no sense to him. He glanced over at Queen Victoria, wondering whether his boldness came from the fact that his hands and face were now clean or that hot tea and tiny sandwiches lay on the table before him. Handing the towel back to the footman, who took it from him with the tongs, he said softly, "Sorry about the mess." 

"Not at all, sir." The tone, like the service, had been dispassionate. Tea had been poured while he was using the towel and the footman took an elaborate step back and to one side, the wet towel having disappeared beneath the covering of the salver again. 

"That will be all, Thomas," announced the Queen, with a dismissive wave. 

The footmen seemed ready to protest, glancing sharply at Jules, but he bowed as elegantly as before, took the handle of the trolley with great dignity, and backed out of the room. Jules watched in fascination as the doors magically opened to let him pass, then closed again behind him. 

"If we may so inquire, when did you last sup, Mr. Verne?" 

Jules rested his hands in his lap. He was tempted to lie, but swallowed the impulse. "Yesterday evening, your majesty." 

"Then perhaps you might wish to partake of some sandwiches. Not too many - we have a thought that you will be well feasted after your adventure and your appetite should rightly shame them. But we refuse to force you to continue your privations merely to satisfy our own curiosity." 

He truly looked, then, at the tray of sandwiches and teacup set before him - there were more then three dozen of the tiny triangles piled decoratively on a plate. He found he could name the contents of several, having endured a few formal teas at Shillingworth Magna and less informal afternoon events aboard the Aurora. And he didn't doubt that without the Queen's express instructions, he could have devoured the lot in under five minutes. 

But he'd been asked only to take the edge off his hunger, which made itself known in a rather loud and boisterous manner when his stomach rumbled. Embarrassed, he glanced up at the Queen from beneath lowered eyelids, but she seemed amused. Waving her hand toward the food, she said, "Please, Mr. Verne, let us not stand on ceremony. And do take care with the tea - we find it most fortifying, but it does not always lie easily on an empty stomach." 

The Queen had not removed her gloves, nor was there a tea setting before her. Jules hesitated only for a moment longer, but then his will gave out and he picked up a sandwich. It was gone in three quick bites. Shamefacedly, he picked up another - salmon paste - took one bite, and forced himself to chew more slowly. 

"Would it discomfort you to answer questions while you eat, Mr. Verne." 

Jules swallowed, picked up the cup of tea and took a sip to clear his throat. "No, your--" 

There was brandy - quite a lot of very good brandy - in the tea. He lowered his gaze and blinked to keep his eyes from watering, then took another small sip and shook his head. "No, your majesty." 

"Excellent." There was a pause and he glanced up at her, finding her expression had become more severe, almost . . . concerned. "We are not unaware of the services you have rendered to ourselves and our nation in the past," said the Queen, pausing in places as she were choosing her words most carefully. "And we are most grateful for your assistance, particularly the valor and loyalty you have shown to Mr. and Miss Fogg, who are among our most favored subjects." 

"You're welcome, your majesty," said Jules, then froze as she cast him a blank look - he'd assumed the Queen had thanked him when she obviously hadn't. "I'm sorry, your majesty, I--" 

She smiled softly and waved her hand. "As we said, Mr. Verne, do not stand on ceremony at this moment. And you offer your kindness too soon. We fear that we have allowed an injustice to be done to you." 

Still uncomfortable with the last mistake he'd made, Jules picked up a sandwich and began to chew on it, reasoning that as long as his mouth was full he couldn't make any further slips. The brandy was beginning to light a warm comfortable glow inside of him and that, added to the relief of finally eating, could lull him into a false sense of familiarity. Fogg and Rebecca both would have his head if he managed to insult the Queen, if her majesty didn't order it removed at the first opportunity. 

"There are those whom we have entrusted with the security of our realm and our person, who also acknowledge the debt we owe you. Had you been a British citizen, there would be little matter of issue, but as you are not . . . ." 

Jules carefully placed the sandwich down on the plate before him, folded his hands in his lap, and met her gaze squarely. "Your majesty, I was born in France. My duty is to France, above all else, but it is no less than the duty I owe mankind. I won't tolerate injustice or evil under any flag. If I'm to be condemned for that, then I beg your pardon." 

He began to rise, but she waved him back to his seat sharply. "Be seated, Mr. Verne, and do stop being impertinent. We have no quarrel with your generous nature. But even you must admit that political necessities sometimes require a certain . . . meanness of spirit." 

Here was a topic upon which he and Fogg and Rebecca had spent many an hour in argument - the politics of nations. His own ideas on the subject were radical, perhaps, but no less valid than their own. It was to their credit that such discussions, having ended less than amicably, were forgotten in the morning or as soon as the subsequent round of drinks had been consumed. If pressed, Fogg would announce, tight-lipped, that they must agree to disagree and that topic would be drawn to a close. Jules discussed his ideas far more freely in the taverns with others of his kind, radical students, all of whom knew they wanted to change the world, but not entirely certain as to how that should be accomplished. 

That he would be given the opportunity to converse with the Queen of England on such a matter . . . was something not even to be considered. He could easily imagine cards with his likeness passed up and down the English coast, proclaiming him non-persona gratis. So Jules picked up the sandwich he'd discarded, lowered his eyes, and pretended his assent. 

"When the matter was first proposed to us, we did not at all approve," said Queen Victoria, obviously unaware of his momentary sacrifice. "Particularly in view of the aforementioned services that you have rendered in providing for our safety and security. But when advised of the possible danger to our favored godchild and her cousin, we could not help but agree to the demand for some surety on your part to temper our concerns for their safety--" 

Jules swallowed the remainder of the sandwich, having manners enough to know that even if it now tasted like sawdust it would be impolite to spit it out onto his plate in front of the Queen. A healthy swallow of the tea did much to help him, although it, too, had changed flavor, more bitter now than before. 

"It was a test, then?" he asked, barely able to control his voice, keeping it low and even when he wanted to scream from the rooftops. "You wanted to see if I'd betray Fogg or Rebecca." 

It occurred to him a second later that he'd forgotten to add the honorific, nor did one ask the Queen of any country such a question. At the moment, he didn't much care. 

"Yes, Mr. Verne," she answered, ignoring the lapse in manners, if she'd even noticed. "There were limits set as to the difficulties you would experience - although from your appearance we gather some of those were surpassed. The appropriate parties shall be dealt with most harshly, we assure you." 

"No - I--" 

The words left him for a moment. He rose to his feet and took a step away, to grasp the full implications of what was being said. When he'd considered the possibility that he'd gone mad, this was the piece he'd been missing. This was the other answer - that someone could deliberately mislead him, abuse and misuse him simply to prove . . . his loyalty? 

"Trust, Mr. Verne, that we would not sanction other proposals, more hurtful propositions. That torture was even _mentioned_--" 

He turned his head at the word, caught her gaze . . . and Queen Victoria, ruler of half the world, looked away, refusing to meet his eyes. 

"Chatsworth," he whispered. 

There was the faintest nod from the royal head. 

"I would _never_ betray them," said Jules, barely controlling his anger. "Never." 

"You were not suspected of ever knowingly betraying them," answered the Queen, straightening in her chair and turning her sharp gaze on him. "It was duress that proved to be the concern, or a slip of the tongue in an unguarded moment. Now there can be no question in the matter. Under threat and promise of bodily harm, confronted by fear, abandoned, you did not attempt to contact anyone in our government, nor did you betray your friends' ties to our security services. You are to be most highly commended, Mr. Verne. Most highly commended." 

She had no idea - he realized that after a moment. The Queen was aware only of the marks on his hands and face, the lack of food and comfort, the confinement and imprisonment, but she'd no idea how close they had come to driving him mad . . . or at least taking him to the edge, where it would have been so easy to cross into darkness. Even Chatsworth would not have been able to guess what this would do to him. To play upon his friendship, to create Gaspar - a thoroughly likable friend with such a believable story, made more true if only by the fact that he'd doubted his own sanity not so long before the Aurora and his friends had entered his life - no, neither the Queen nor any of her ministers could have known, could have begun to guess what this might do to him. 

Only his friends might have had an inkling, only they could have begun to suspect what something of this nature could mean to his sanity, could do to his mind. They'd been kept in the dark, surely? They would never have countenanced this. Not Fogg, his own grasp on the reality of the now never quite firmly enough in place. Not Rebecca, who could, with a glance, make him blush like a schoolboy and always knew when to praise him and when to challenge him. Not Passepartout, who had helped to bring to reality some of the most amazing of his visions, who seemed awed by a brilliance he was certain he didn't have, and yet who spoke to him as a friend, who _trusted_ him. 

"Mr. Verne?" 

He swallowed, suddenly realizing that he'd been staring across the room, hands on his hips contemplating the question he knew he'd have to ask . . . and the answer he dreaded. Closing his eyes, he bowed his head. 

"Did . . . did _they_ know?" he whispered. 

There was a pause. He opened his eyes, almost certain that she wasn't going to answer. But he found the Queen's attention centered completely on him, sadness in her eyes. 

"I'm afraid they did, Mr. Verne. I'm very much afraid they did." 

**** 

End of Part 5 

**** 


	6. Chapter 6

**** 

**Chapter Six**

If he had made a noise, some sound, he was not entirely aware of it. Jules stood for a moment, wondering at the sudden ache in his chest and the anguish he felt with the words. 

Yet why should he be surprised? It had taken Gaspar less than a day to become his friend and that with nothing more than concern and easy words. How completely these others had slipped into his life. How easily he had centered his life on them. They had become his family. They had become his world. 

They had nearly driven him mad. 

Madness would have hurt far less than this. 

They should have known. 

"Mr. Verne?" 

Jules took a deep breath and walked back to the chair, standing behind it. A moment more to compose himself, his hands resting on the chair back, then he asked, "If it would please your majesty, could you arrange passage for me back to Paris? I have no money with me, but I could reimburse the cost of the tickets once I've returned home." 

"You would not prefer to travel with your friends aboard the Aurora?" 

He met her gaze evenly. "I no longer consider that an option, your majesty." 

"Then you are a fool, Mr. Verne." Her eyes narrowed, the depth of the anger in them surprising him. "As tempted as we are to fulfill your request immediately, we are most aware of the pain this would cause to yourself and to those others whom we would hold dear to our service. Sit down, Mr. Verne." 

There was no choice in the matter. Jules seated himself on the chair, then took another swig of tea-laced brandy from the cup. 

"We are not in the habit of commanding forgiveness in our subjects or their acquaintances - that matter is between you and your friends, and perhaps your conscience. But we would have you know that the assent of your friends to this test was not given lightly and barely given at the last, were it not for the possible threat to your life." She waited, letting the words sink in, only proceeding when she was obviously certain she had his undivided attention. "We would have been content with a severance of your friendship only - they would be permitted to part with you on the best terms possible, through post or telegraph, or simply by avoiding contact for long periods, as these things do happen in the course of events. You might have been left untested, sadder, but no wiser, Mr. Verne, and could prove no further threat to them." 

The thought of this type of parting without actually parting made his blood run cold even now. He fought back a smile at the uncharitable things Fogg and Rebecca would have to say about it, politely, of course, in her majesty's presence. "But Passepartout? Surely there'd be no danger--?" 

"So he objected, so they _all_ objected," explained the Queen, with a long-suffering sigh. "Vociferously and at _great_ length - but there was still danger in close contact. We do not need to tell you, Mr. Verne, of letters of resignation written and rejected, the multitude of comments about planning to make one's home abroad, or even being without country, save for the citizenship of the air. It was all quite tedious, I assure you." 

"Yes, your majesty," agreed Jules, with what he hoped was a polite smile, although he could barely keep it from becoming a grin. 

"The matter might have been placed at standstill until it was decided that perhaps the damage had been done and that you already knew . . . too much." 

The words sent a shiver through him. Jules sat straighter in his chair and folded his hands in his lap at the implied threat, but pretended polite ignorance. "Your majesty?" 

"It is not the most pleasant duty of a monarch to consider such matters. We would never have approved of such an action, particularly involving the demise of someone such as yourself, Mr. Verne, who has provided such generous service to ourselves and our nation without any thought of reward. But there would be others who might seek you out, unprotected as you would be, to learn what they could from you. Should one of our servants feel the threat was great enough, he might well take it upon himself to do such service to the nation as . . . well . . . it is not something we would wish to see happen." 

"Nor I, your majesty," echoed Jules, his voice barely audible. 

"Nor Mr. Fogg, nor Miss Fogg, nor Mr. Fogg's valet," she amended, her voice not unkind. "After extensive . . . discussions . . . of the matter, it was agreed that having proved your trust-worthiness would be more than sufficient token for your future good behavior, and what we trust would be the reward of a long and happy life for you, Mr. Verne." She cleared her throat, her lips curling slightly into a smile. "As we have stated, they knew, but they did not agree easily. Having agreed, they forced such constraints upon the enterprise to make it almost unpracticable. Even then, their greatest concern was not that you would fail the test - to their minds there was never any outcome to consider but that you should succeed - but that you should find their collusion in this endeavor so distasteful and hurtful that it would over-ride any friendly feeling toward them. Miss Fogg assured me on more than one occasion that they would hazard anything to maintain your friendship, with the exception of your life." 

Jules picked up a sandwich to cover his confusion, then placed it back onto the tray again - hardly a polite thing to do, but he had to do _something_ while he considered the matter. He was being unfair to assume that Rebecca or Fogg or even Passepartout would know what it would mean for him to think himself mad. The 'constraints' the Queen mentioned - he could well imagine they had forced Chatsworth to adhere to the narrowest of specifications in designing this trial. And they couldn't have anticipated Jules forcing his way into Fogg's house and then getting arrested . . . that no doubt caused no end of problems for the spymaster. 

The thought of having inadvertently disturbed Chatsworth's well-laid scheme amused him, until he realized that some of the abuse he'd received might well have been a result of that frustration. None of his friends would have permitted what had happened to him had they known of it in advance, neither being confined and left in the cell or the rough handling given by Chatsworth's men. 

"Be assured, Mr. Verne," said the Queen, "you need have no fear for your continued well-being. Your actions today have proven you more then reliable and we would have no concern if you wished to end your acquaintance with Mr. Fogg, Miss Fogg, and Mr. Fogg's valet, as you have just mentioned. You will be provided with sufficient funds to cover your passage back to Paris, as well as an additional sum to compensate you for your troubles. I believe that concludes our business?" 

Jules glanced up at her quickly, starting at the import of her words. For the sake of form he should rise, bow, and head for the door. But he couldn't leave it like this. He couldn't walk away from his friends without at least having had a chance to confront them. They couldn't have known what they were asking of him . . . and if they were truly ignorant of the seriousness of what they'd nearly done, he would never be able to bring himself to enlighten them. 

"Your majesty?" Jules picked up his teacup and cradled it in his hands, making it plain that he wasn't about to rise to his feet and depart in honorable fashion. "I apologize - I spoke hastily. After what's happened to me today, I'm afraid that I'm . . . I'm not entirely myself." 

"Indeed, Mr. Verne?" asked the Queen, with a look of concern. "Are you seriously unwell? Shall you require a doctor's assistance?" 

He shivered at the memory of the previous 'assistance' given to him by a doctor and then forced himself to meet her eyes. "No, your majesty, but thank you. If it wouldn't be too much to ask, could you spare a carriage to take me to my friends - to Mr. Fogg, Miss Fogg, and Passepartout?" 

"You shall not, then, require passage to Paris?" 

It was a kind reminder that one should be careful of what boons one asked from princes. Jules lowered his head meekly and answered, "No, your majesty, but I thank you for the kindness of the offer." 

"Very well. You do realize, Mr. Verne, this conversation never occurred? There would be those in my service who would prove to be . . . unsettled . . . should such a conversation have taken place, your friends not the least among them." 

Jules rose to his feet and nodded. "Of course, your majesty." 

"And I find I must decline your request for a carriage." When he looked up in dismay, he found her smiling. There was a fan in her hand and she flicked it open, pointing toward the far door. "Your friends have been waiting anxiously for word of the outcome of your trials. Thomas will take you to them directly, if that's your wish." 

"I could ask for nothing more, your majesty." He bowed from the waist, as he had seen Fogg do upon occasion. As he rose, he saw that the Queen had extended her hand. 

"You have permission to kiss my hand, Mr. Verne." 

This, he guessed, was a signal honor - he had only seen Fogg do it once before when in the Queen's presence. Hoping that he didn't trip on the carpet or fall over in a heap at her feet, he moved to one side of the table, bowed again, and took the Queen's hand with the greatest delicacy. After pressing it quickly to his lips, he returned the hand to her and bowed again. 

"We are pleased to see that you are acquiring manners worthy of even Mr. Phileas Fogg, Mr. Verne." 

Certain that he'd blushed straight back to the tips of his ears, Jules nodded. "Thank you, your majesty." 

He backed toward the door, eyes slightly downcast, but once he reached there couldn't help but glance up at her. She was still watching him, a slight and approving smile on her face. He wasn't entirely certain what caused the impulse, but he raised his hand to wave at her. 

And, oddly enough, the last thing he saw before he left the room through the doors opened by those mysterious gloved hands was Queen Victoria of England, more than a little startled, uncertainly waving back at him. 

**** 

End of Part 6 

**** 


	7. Chapter 7

**** 

**Chapter Seven**

It was with no small amount of trepidation that Jules followed Thomas down the hall and a flight of stairs, heading for the room in which his friends awaited him. What words of greeting could he give them, what assurances could he offer them of his continued friendship, particularly since he'd been ready to walk away from them less than a half-hour past? Should he even be willing to offer those assurances? They were the ones who'd agreed to this trial on his behalf, albeit in an attempt to preserve his life. Did he owe them anything? Even now his heart was torn by the thought that they _should_ have known, but the things he felt at the possibility of never seeing them again and parting on such poor terms were beyond bearing. 

When they finally arrived at the door, Thomas leaned forward to open it silently, so that only his white gloves would appear past the doorframe. It was certainly a clever trick and Jules turned to tell him so, but closed his mouth and bit his lip when Thomas met his eager interest with a stern stare. 

The room was nearly silent; gas lamps had been turned up, giving the light a slightly golden cast. Much to his surprise, Jules realized that it was well past sunset - no wonder he was ravenous. 

It was a sitting room, decorated in shades of red, with white lace antimacassars draped over the backs of over-stuffed chairs. Rebecca was standing by the window and gazing out into the darkness, holding the overdrape back from the glass. Fogg was at the decanter, the glass in his hand full, but it gave an air of having remained untouched for some time. Passepartout was in the process of placing a tray upon a side table, picking it up, dusting it, then moving it to another table where it received a slight frown and another wipe of his sleeve before it was moved again. And even Chatsworth was present, the only one of the group who was seated, an unlit pipe clenched in his teeth and a scowl on his face. 

That Chatsworth was the first to see him wasn't at all surprising - he was the only one facing the door. He rose to his feet and stared at Jules with an unblinking concentrated look that very much resembled an owl. 

The movement set the others into motion. Passepartout turning, spotted him and walked forward, grinning wildly, while Fogg was more reserved, placing his tumbler on the table, then striding across the room with such purposeful movement that it appeared nothing in heaven, on earth, or from hell itself was likely to stop him. Only Rebecca hesitated, turning at the window and not moving immediately, her lips smiling, but the smile turning sad, almost wistful as he met her gaze. 

There was time to see no more than that, for Passepartout flung his arms around Jules and kissed him on both cheeks, then grabbed his arm and drew him into the room, the dust cloth in his hand fluttering like a battle pennant. "Master Jules! It is being wonderful to see you." 

"It's very good to see you, too," answered Jules, coughing lightly in the cloud of dust descending from the cloth, then spitting a bit into his hand to free the grime from his lips. 

That was wiped readily onto his trousers, for Fogg pushed past Chatsworth and Passepartout and grasped Jules' hand firmly as if to shake it - but having shaken it, did not release him at once. "Verne." 

"Fogg." Jules nodded, then met Fogg's gaze evenly, remembering the Queen's compliment about his manners. "It's good to see you're real." 

"Good to see you're unscathed." His raised his gaze, took in the bruises on Jules' cheeks, then lifted Jules' hand to view the slightly scabbing scrapes along his knuckles. "Mostly unscathed," he corrected, turning a sharp look at Chatsworth before he carefully released Jules' hand. 

For his own part, Chatsworth seemed completely ill at ease. He nodded at Jules curtly. "Verne." 

Jules nodded in return, a short movement barely acknowledging the man's greeting. "Sir Jonathan," he replied, unwilling to give Chatsworth any further consideration. 

And then Chatsworth turned away, replaced by Rebecca, who was wearing that purple dress that he admired so much - he'd once even gotten up the nerve to tell her that he liked how she looked in it. Her hair was pulled to one side with a ribbon and she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then took his arm and led him to a chair. "Sit down before you fall down, Jules." 

Practical to a fault, but there was kindness in her tone and he didn't much mind the fact that she parked herself at his right shoulder, leaning on the chair back peremptorily as if laying claim to her territory. 

Passepartout returned with his silver tray and presented it to Jules with a broad smile - the compass and his watch rested upon it. "Thank you," said Jules, taking the items back with no small amount of gratitude and placing them in his pockets. 

"Is that was all being taken from you?" asked Passepartout. 

The hair ribbon was missing - he didn't turn his head and look back at Rebecca to note its loss. "My knife," noted Jules, then gazed up at Chatsworth, who was standing at the other end of the room. "Although it doesn't cut much of anything - I used it to sharpen pencils. The police took it from me." 

"Little hope of getting it back from the station, I should think." Fogg had picked up his drink and had been sipping it, watching Jules lay claim to his belongings. Setting down the glass, he picked up something from the table behind him, then walked over to Jules. "Just as well I brought this, then." 

The small knife Fogg placed in his hand had an ivory handle, with the initials JV carved into the base. Jules looked up, startled at the gift, only to find Fogg offering him, quite solemnly, his journal. 

Having been nearly fooled before, Jules opened it quickly; his lecture notes were intact, as well as the notes he'd taken on the various plays he wanted to write, but it was the sketches, tucked here and there across the length or pages, around words, in margins . . . they were the most important. They were complete and undisturbed. 

"Took the better part of a week's work to duplicate that book," said Chatsworth, around the stump of the pipe held in his teeth. He took the pipe out of his mouth to gesture toward the book. "Would have taken less time if Fogg had let us have it for more than a few minutes at a time." 

"And you'd have lost it, like the knife?" asked Fogg coolly, turning back to his drink. 

It was as if a part of him that had been taken away was now complete, with the journal back in his hands. Jules hugged it to his chest, only half-aware that he was doing so, then set it on the table beside him. He turned his attention to the knife, flipping it over in his palm and testing the sharpness of the blade. The gift was unexpected, but perhaps not entirely so when he considered that of the things that had been taken from him that would have proved their existence to his own mind, he had nothing distinctly and conspicuously connected to Fogg. "This is beautiful, Fogg, much better than the old one. Thank you." 

Fogg's wave was dismissive as he lifted his glass to his lips, "Just a trifle," but he seemed pleased nonetheless. 

Rebecca leaned over Jules' shoulder and whispered, "Your journal's barely left his hands since they took you from us." 

The words warmed him. Jules knew that was something Fogg would never admit, that he had taken such care of the journal. And yet . . . Chatsworth's words had indicated that this thing had been done in stages - it would have taken them some time to duplicate his penmanship so well. 

The sudden warmth was replaced by the cold calculation of the thing. Swallowing, Jules looked down at the knife in his hand, then took his time settling it into his waistcoat pocket. They'd allowed him to be taken - it was hard to remember that, to keep thinking of it. 

They'd had no choice. 

The awkward silence grew longer. They were waiting for him to say or do something, yet he had no idea what they expected of him, or even what he expected of them. When Rebecca's hand touched his shoulder, he smiled up at her . . . then paused when he caught sight of someone lounging in the open doorway. 

This was no mysterious white glove holding the door open - the gloves were gray and well tailored. It was Gaspar, or the man who'd pretended to be Gaspar, dressed in a coat, waistcoat and trousers that were as impeccable as they were fashionable. Only the bruise running from his chin up the left side of his face belied the complete effect of elegant splendor. 

Realizing that he'd been seen - Rebecca's head now having turned toward him as well -he entered, hand tucked into his coat pocket and nodding toward Sir Jonathan before addressing the others. 

That seemed odd to Jules at first, until he realized that Sir Jonathan was Gaspar's superior. And not 'Gaspar' either . . . . 

"Upton Sturges," announced Fogg, barely pausing between sips from his glass and gesturing briefly toward the newcomer with a dismissive wave. "One of Chatsworth's more promising flunkies." 

"Have a care, Fogg," hissed Sir Jonathan. 

"It's all right, Sir Jonathan - Fogg's correct on both counts." Sturges bowed toward Fogg on his way to Jules and Rebecca, as if having received a compliment. Ignoring Passepartout utterly, he took Rebecca's hand and made a motion as if to touch it to his lips. "Rebecca." 

"Sturges," she countered, withdrawing her hand from his grasp with a slight tug before his lips could touch her. Casting a sidelong glance at Jules as if in apology for abandoning him, she crossed the room, returning to the window. 

Sturges watched her pass, his faint expression of annoyance at her reaction disappearing as he reached forward to take Jules' hand, shaking it politely. "Upton Sturges, Mr. Verne. I hope there's no hard feelings about the means by which we were acquainted. I know the Foggs and others--" he glanced over his shoulder toward Chatsworth, "think highly of you. I'd hate to have earned your enmity." 

Jules removed his hand from Sturges' grasp as quickly as possible, not even having bothered to rise from the chair in which he'd been seated. For a moment he thought even the merest attempt at civility might be beyond him - he sincerely wanted to strangle this man - but realized that he was too worn to even bother. "Of course, Mr. Sturges. It was only your job, after all. Your French is impeccable. I wouldn't have guessed you were native to anywhere but Paris." 

"Thank you, Mr. Verne. I--" 

Sturges found himself brushed abruptly to one side as Passepartout delivered a mug to Jules on the same silver tray he'd used earlier. "Something to warm you," announced Passepartout. 

Jules took as much delight in Sturges' sudden discomfiture as he did in finding the cup filled with a thick concoction of hot chocolate, coffee, and milk. "Thank you, Passepartout." 

Passepartout bowed slightly, grinned behind his hand, then whisked away as quickly as before, leaving Sturges still slightly stunned and without the slightest offer to get him so much as a glass of water. 

"You were saying, Sturges?" prompted Fogg, brandishing his own glass as if to remind Sturges of the snub he'd just received. 

"Yes, well--" Sturges glanced down at Jules, then walked over to Fogg and helped himself to an empty tumbler and the contents of the decanter. "I must say, you certainly know the horse to back in every race, Fogg. When you wagered fifty pounds that we'd be unable to break your friend--" 

"Phileas!" hissed Rebecca, turning at the window. "Is this true?" 

Jules glanced first to her - anger racing through him at the thought that Fogg could possibly be so callous as to bet on the outcome of his ordeal - and then to Fogg, whose cheeks had gone bone white at Sturges' comment. 

"You didn't know?" asked Sturges, grinning at her. He gestured with his glass toward Jules. "It was all the more incentive to try, I suppose." 

Fogg placed his own glass on the sideboard beside the decanter, the fingers of his other hand clenched into a fist. "It had been a casual comment," he announced to the room in general in an even tone, his eyes fixed on Sturges. "I said only that I'd hold for Verne's pluck and nerve against anything Sturges and his lot could throw at him--" 

"At fifty pounds, for a minimum," corrected Sturges. 

"It was never meant to be taken as a serious wager." 

Jules straightened in his chair; Fogg's voice was all but coated with ice. He wouldn't have been surprised to see Sturges wearing the remains of Fogg's drink shortly, or even the contents of the decanter if Passepartout hadn't taken that moment to sweep between the two men and remove it to safety. 

"Then you should have said something. I took it seriously enough to have brought your winnings with me or I should have been here half an hour earlier." He patted his upper coat pocket and smiled at Fogg. "I should like to settle with you at the first opportunity, if you wouldn't mind. I don't like to leave open accounts standing." 

"I agree with you on that point," said Fogg, downing the liquor in his glass with one shot, indicating to Jules, at least, that Sturges' ability to stand at all might also be settled in this encounter. Fogg gestured toward the doorway. "Shall we go?" 

Preferring to stop the matter here, Jules started to push himself to his feet, but Rebecca intervened swiftly, sailing across the room and placing herself between the two men. "Shall I take care of it for you, Phileas?" 

Fogg glared past her at Sturges, who actually appeared oblivious to the danger in which he'd placed himself. He touched a knuckle to his lip as if considering the matter, and then met Jules' eyes across the room. 

Aware of Fogg's gaze, Jules went still, not wanting to encourage more mayhem - it little mattered to him at this point whether or not a wager had been placed. Sturges or Gaspar or whatever he was called was only one more reminder of the betrayal, the number of betrayals, he'd been dealt this day. 

"Very well," said Fogg, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Do as you wish, Rebecca." 

"It would be my pleasure." Smiling sweetly, she took Sturges' arm, leading him from the room. "Come along, Sturges." 

Jules fought the urge to laugh as the fool blindly followed her lead and nearly lost his fight against chuckling aloud when he caught Passepartout miming a noose and indicating that Sturges was a dead man. Unfortunately, Chatsworth caught the interplay as well and rose to his feet with no small amount of fury. 

"See here, Fogg, I won't have you manhandling my agents. It's bad enough that Verne concussed two of them today--" 

"Did you, Verne?" asked Fogg, raising his glass in salute and grinning as Jules nodded hesitantly. "Well done. Well done, indeed." 

Jules picked up his mug and busied himself with it, hardly sharing Fogg's pleasure at the memory. He was vaguely aware that Chatsworth was continuing in much the same vein when he was startled by a yell from the hallway. Setting down his mug, he rose from his chair, but Rebecca entered the room just as he reached the door. 

Completely unruffled and giving him a broad smile, she tossed a clip of pound notes into his hands and then pulled the door closed behind her. "Your account's settled, Phileas. Although I think Jules should have the money - it's his by right." 

"But I don't--" protested Jules, staring down at the wad of bills in his hand. He trailed after Rebecca, vainly attempting to get her to take it back. "It's not mine." 

"Of course it is," she insisted, turning on him. "They," she gestured toward Chatsworth, "knew the rules and they bent them, if not broke them entirely. One look at you when you walked through the door told us that much. They owe you forfeit for that." Then she brushed closer to him, adding softly, "Better that I take care of the matter. Had Phileas taken Sturges into the hall, he would have settled for no less than a limb." 

She turned her head slightly, indicating that he should look at Chatsworth, who was standing not too far from them. When Jules saw the man' sudden pallor, he realized that Chatsworth had heard the comment. The man's nostrils were flared like that of a racehorse and he cleared his throat rather loudly, as if trying to overcome the sudden fear for his own well being by stoking his wrath. 

Fogg was at the sideboard still, glass in hand, half-turned from Chatsworth and a faint smile on his face. Whatever was planned for Chatsworth, he was well set to enjoy it. 

This had arranged for his benefit, his friends thinking that he needed to see how they would exact their own form of vengeance for this situation, on their behalf as well as his own. 

Jules couldn't allow this. He wanted no more of it. Moving directly to Fogg, he caught the man's arm, surprising him. "Let him go, Fogg," he said softly, more than a slight note of entreaty in his voice. "I don't want-- Just let him go. For my sake." 

Fogg sobered immediately and placed his glass down on the sideboard when Jules released his arm. His gaze was direct and if there was the slightest edge of concern to it, Jules had manners enough not to take notice. "Is that what you truly want?" 

"Yes." Jules swallowed. "I want to go home. It's been . . . a long day." 

At the word 'home,' Fogg had started, casting a quick glance over his shoulder at Rebecca across the room, but he turned back to Jules almost instantly. His smile, though faint, was sincere and held none of the implied malice of the earlier one. "Very well." He leaned close to Jules and said softly, "Would you deny me a harmless bit of fun before we leave?" 

Jules looked at Chatsworth; the spy-master seemed momentarily too well-mannered to break into their quiet conversation, but was obviously anxious to know exactly what was being said, particularly if it related to him. Remembering the queen's pronunciation of the word 'torture,' he found himself not completely averse to watching Chatsworth be socially discomfited and gave Fogg a barely perceptible nod before heading back to his chair. 

"I should think it's time to return to Saville Row, now that we've been reunited." Fogg picked up the empty glass, raising it to Jules as if in a salute, then placed it on the sideboard again. He took a step toward the center of the room, bringing him closer to Chatsworth, his attention still ostensibly on Jules. "We owe Verne a chance to make himself presentable and a decent supper, at the very least I should think." 

Passepartout, who had been in process of replacing the decanter on the sideboard, said quickly, "But master, you have forgotten the remodelings?" 

"Ah. Yes." Fogg touched his fingers to his forehead as if in mock forgetfulness. "Chatsworth?" He turned toward the smaller man with a predatory smile. "Be a good man and see that everything's back in place by the morning. I can't abide that paper you've placed in the foyer. Positively vulgar. One would think the British Secret Service had no taste whatsoever." 

Rebecca cleared her throat rather loudly and Fogg turned toward her. Within two paces he was at her side. Taking her hand gallantly, he pressed a kiss onto her fingers and added, "Present company excepted, of course." "Of course," she murmured, with a wicked smile. 

It was Passepartout's turn to clear his throat. Arm folded at the small of his back, he bowed slightly, heels together. "You will be wantings a carriage to be taking you to supper, master?" 

"The Aurora, please," said Jules quickly. When they turned and looked at him in unison, he slumped back into his chair, slightly embarrassed. "I'd rather eat aboard the Aurora, if it wouldn't be too much bother, Passepartout." 

"For you, Master Jules, is nothing bothersome." 

"Very well," said Fogg, clapping his hands together as if the matter had been decided. "Although I think it rather inefficient to send us in circles all night. A destination is required. Verne looks in need of holiday - perhaps Switzerland?" 

Rebecca had laced her arm through that of her cousin and was watching him suspiciously - Jules suddenly realized that this was an entirely impromptu performance on Fogg's part. "Is there some reason to suggest Switzerland?" 

"The skiing appears to be excellent," said Fogg, far too blandly for the comment to be unimportant. 

That piqued Jules' interest and he leaned forward in his chair. "Do you ski, Fogg?" 

"No," answered Rebecca quickly, her nose still wrinkled in suspicion as she studied her cousin's face, "but he's been known to wager on it. Any chance there's a race impending?" 

"No. Not really a 'race.'" Fogg withdrew from Rebecca's hold on him and walked back toward the sideboard. "More of a short, downhill event, really." 

"A 'race'," corrected Rebecca, sharing a grin with Jules behind Fogg's back. 

No doubt unhappy at seeing his employer foundering, Passepartout stepped forward, announcing, "I would be very much liking to watch a skiing race." 

"That could be difficult," said Fogg, placing a hand on Passepartout's shoulder. "As I intend to wager on your participation in the race." 

Passepartout's eyes widened appreciably. "Master?" 

Fogg produced his empty glass almost as a distraction and Passepartout automatically retrieved the decanter from the sideboard to fill it. "You did say that you'd skied before," noted Fogg, watching the liquid fill the glass. 

"Some," said Passepartout. He placed the decanter on the sideboard and turned his attention to Jules and Rebecca. "A very _little_ some." He made a motion with his hands, indicating a small hill. "Not big Swiss mountain _some_," his gestures expanded, "with sheeps and goats and men with long horns and der liederhosen." 

Jules was hard-pressed to keep from laughing at Passepartout's antics, then looked up when he felt a touch on his shoulder and found that Rebecca had moved behind him again. She seemed to be enjoying the spectacle almost as much as he. 

Waving his glass with a dismissive air, Fogg declared, "Nonsense, it's all the same! Gravity, isn't it, Verne?" 

"It's not just--" started Jules, with a laugh, but Fogg cut him off. 

"Of course it is. Start at the top of the hill, work toward the bottom." He moved the glass in his hand down in a sloping motion, as if to illustrate the procedure to a dubious Passepartout, then lifted it to his lips and drank from it. "Wonderful. Shall we go, then?" 

Without waiting for further comment, Fogg set aside his glass and stalked purposefully toward the door, pausing only a moment a Chatsworth's side. "Not one thing out of place," he warned with mock severity, "nor shall I entertain any calls from the service on my cousin's behalf. We will be on holiday in Switzerland until further notice." Fogg turned at the doorway and glanced back inquiringly, his gaze finally resting on his valet. "Passepartout?" 

"But we will be needings skis and wooly things and muffles and--" protested the valet, as he hurried after his master. 

"I assume we can purchase the lot in Zurich. Those sheep you mentioned - their wool might be particularly efficacious for cold weather, would you agree . . . ?" 

The conversation trailed off into the hall. Even as Jules rose to his feet, he found himself faced by a fuming Chatsworth. "Mr. Verne," he acknowledged curtly, then turned and bowed slightly to Rebecca. "Miss Fogg. I shall not tolerate such disrespect from your cousin. I shall _not_ tolerate it!" 

"Then perhaps you'd best discuss that with Phileas. I believe you'll find him heading toward Switzerland?" 

With a muttered growl, Chatsworth turned on his heel and headed through the door, calling "Fogg! Hold there! Fogg!" 

"He'll be lucky not to lose a limb himself," she said softly, staring after them and biting her lip. When she saw the worried expression on Jules' face, her smile widened. "Oh, don't be alarmed - Phileas wouldn't do anything serious to Sir Jonathan. At least, nothing visible that wouldn't heal in a day or two. And - oh - I'd forgotten." Reaching up into her hair, she withdrew the ribbon that had been holding it in place and held it out for him. "I believe this is yours." 

When he didn't take it at once, she took his palm and placed the ribbon on it. Cheeks flushed, Jules stared down at the floor. "Rebecca, I didn't - I meant to give it back - I just--" 

Her fingers bent around his, closing them around the ribbon. When he looked up, he found she was smiling. "It's very flattering, actually. And I never should have discovered it if we hadn't been forced to--" 

Her words stopped in mid-sentence and she looked away from him, releasing his hand. "I shouldn't be surprised if you should hate us for having put you through this," she said softly, still unable to look at him. "We've discussed the matter - if you'd prefer to leave us, we'd understand. You said that you wanted to go . . . home?" Only then did she turn to look at him, her eyes clear and her expression resolute. "To Paris?" 

"No, the Aurora." 

Her faint smile warmed him, but there was still a sadness in her expression. "You do understand, we tried to anticipate every contingency. We did _not_ expect you to get yourself arrested." 

Jules looked down at the floor, grinning slightly at her obvious consternation. 

"Nor did we expect you to put up such a fight." He lifted his gaze as her fingertips touched the bruise on his cheek. "Details are lacking at the moment - did you really knock both of Chatsworth's men unconscious with a single blow? And Sturges, too, although I dare say he well deserved it?" 

Uneasy with her praise, he nodded hesitantly, then turned away. 

"Jules?" she asked softly. When he didn't turn to face her, she touched his shoulder. "_Can_ you forgive us?" 

"I think I already have." 

Rebecca's exhaled breath on the back of his neck sent a shiver through him. "I suspect there is a 'but' hovering somewhere?" As if realizing that her proximity was making this all the more difficult for him, he felt her step away. "When you stood at the door, you seemed so . . . distant. We all noticed." 

"It was relief. Seeing you here - seeing you _all_ here." Now he did turn to face her, needing to meet her gaze. "There was a point today when I was sure that I'd gone mad, that I'd invented all of you, that you were nothing but phantoms." 

Her shocked expression laid open the raw truth of his suspicion - they hadn't known. "Jules - no?" 

Jules nodded slightly, then raised a hand to ward her off when she would have moved toward him. "It was the only answer that made sense - that I was mad and had been mad for some time. Even now," he glanced around the room, "after all that's happened, I'm terrified that this might be just another waking dream, that I'm back in that cell, chained to the wall, wearing that damned jacket . . . ." 

He fought the break in his voice, managed to keep it from falling away all together except at the end. When she moved to him and hugged him tightly, he had no strength left to put her off. Because if this was a dream and he did wake now, he didn't think his heart could bear it. 

"We _are_ real," she whispered in his ear. "Incredibly real." Pulling back from him slightly, she took his injured right hand in her own and touched it to her lips, then met his gaze. "Had we known - I never would have allowed this, Jules. Nor Phileas, nor Passepartout. To think that we might have driven you mad in an attempt to save your life?" 

He hadn't meant to tell her this, hadn't ever meant to let any of them know, but some of the weight lifted from his chest in the unburdening of it. The note of horror in her voice comforted him and he turned his hand against hers, squeezing her fingers lightly. "I'd decided that if you were all phantoms and that I could only enjoy your company when I was mad, that I'd forgo sanity altogether. That was the worst part of it - that in recognizing my madness as such, I might lose hold of it. I'd lose you. All of you." 

Rebecca regarded him thoughtfully and touched his fingers to her lips again, as if uncertain what to say. "I should think that if I _must_ be a figment of someone's imagination, I would prefer to be yours." 

He smiled at the compliment, studying her hair, her eyes, the slight parting of her lips as she waited for his reaction. "I don't think my imagination is up to the task of creating something so magnificent as to defy description." 

There was, to his surprise a flash of color in her cheeks at his words. Releasing his hand quickly, Rebecca stepped back and then lightly tapped a finger to his lips a single time. "_That_ was a very pretty compliment. And deserving of a favor far in excess of a simple ribbon." Whirling, Rebecca scurried to the armchair, seated herself upon it, and gazed at him with a challenging smile. "Ask me for something." 

"What?" He stared at her in bewilderment, then took a step toward her. 

"Today's the day I'm settling all accounts. Phileas' accounts. My accounts. I'm in your debt - ask me for something, for any favor you'd like." There was a pixieish gleam in her eyes and she leaned back in the chair quite regally, as if she was the empress of the universe and the world was but a footstool beneath her heels. "Come then - the offer won't last for long. Call it recompense for my being such a fool and not having understood--" She stopped then, the fancy of the moment before disappearing beneath a somber, anxious expression. "Will you - will you permit me to speak of this to Phileas? I won't, if you'd rather I didn't." 

Jules didn't know quite what to say. He hadn't intended to tell them at all and yet . . . . "If you think he should know." 

"I very much think he should know - this can't be allowed to happen ever again." The sternness of the reprimand was obviously meant for herself and not for him, but then her features softened. "And Passepartout, also. It would help them to understand, I think. We were all so very worried about you." Rebecca closed her eyes momentarily as if to hide something from him. He saw a weariness steal over her features, a worn look that he'd glimpsed only once or twice before, at the end of extraordinarily harrowing missions. When she opened her eyes again, the look had disappeared and her gaze was clear. "Unless you wish to speak to them yourself?" 

He thought for a moment, then shook his head. "I wouldn't know what to say." 

"You always know what to say," countered Rebecca. "But there _are_ times when you stubbornly refuse to say it." Then she smiled again, leaned back, and was once again empress of the universe. "Ask me, come on. Any favor I can grant you, I will." 

Jules wasn't certain which was the more intoxicating, that the offer had been made at all or that Rebecca would, by her own word, fulfill anything within her power that he might ask of her. The possibilities were endless, staggering, almost as boundless as his own imagination. 

Yet, for all that he had been through, for as weary as his mind and body might be, he could not bear to ask anything of her that might lose him her friendship, for then he would truly have to account himself mad beyond redemption. There was, however, one matter he'd determined must be settled beyond question. 

"Would you--?" Jules hesitated and licked his lips. She raised an eyebrow during his pause, but her smile never wavered. "Would you teach me to pick locks?" 

Rebecca appeared, at best description, stunned. She stared at him a moment in wonderment, her lips forming an 'o' of amazement. And then the edges quirked up at the corners in wry amusement. "Pick locks?" she repeated. 

Jules nodded. "Yes." When she continued to stare at him, he asked nervously, "Is that too much to ask?" 

"No, not at all. Pick locks." Rebecca blinked at him then rose from the chair and took a step toward him, her smile affectionate. She took his arm in her own and turned him toward the door, then planted a quick kiss on his cheek. "I think I shall never cease to adore you, Jules. Pick locks. Of course. We might start with the lock to Phileas' cabin, as it's always been bothersome and there's no sense in beginning with something simple when you can easily master the most difficult. Pick locks . . . ." 

They had just entered the hallway when Jules froze in sudden alarm and disentangled his arm from hers. Rebecca half-turned in concern as he headed back through the doorway at a run. "Jules?" 

"Go on - I'll catch up," he called. "I've forgotten something." Dashing back into the room, he paused, then spotted it on the table beside the armchair. 

His journal. His steps slowed as he approached it. Lifting it in his hands should mean so little, but a knot tightened in his chest. It might have been the feel of it - he ran the fingertips of his right hand over the cover - or the familiarity of it that meant so much to him. Or, it could simply have been that it was so much a part of him, of what he was, or what he had been, and . . . of what he was to be. 

"If I _am_ mad," Jules prayed, fingers brushing the cover of the book, "dear God, don't _ever_ let me regain my sanity." 

He stood for a moment in the quiet of the empty room, his journal crushed to his chest and his trinkets in his pockets, content in the knowledge that his friends - real or imagined - waited for him in an airship - real or imagined - not so far away on the grounds of this royal estate. There was peace to be found in the certitude of that knowledge, serenity priceless beyond measure. 

And, too, was as priceless as the knowledge that if he should need to leave the lamp above his bed burning low as he slept for the next few nights, the matter would not be commented upon by any of his friends aboard the Aurora. 

**** 

The End 

**** 

**Author's note: ** I've taken liberties with Jules' audience with the queen, which would never have been allowed to happen, even with royal mandate. You must understand that I'm still on my learner's permit for my poetic license and am not allowed more than one impossible fictional occurrence after dark unless accompanied by a fully licensed writer. 


End file.
